The Three Brothers: Book One
by rahul24248
Summary: Mark is a First-Gen wizard and a Natural Legilimens. Reluctant to go to Hogwarts, he's soon drawn into the budding conflict between Harry Potter and Voldemort. Not to mention the mysterious happenings and secrets that he stumbles on to at his new school. All he wants is to make friends and possibly find a cure for his father. OC Centric AU. Book One spans Year 1-3. Year 1 Complete
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

The forest was quiet. Only the sound of rustling leaves was to be heard. Sprawled like a sleeping giant, it had endured for many millennia, bearing silent witness to the events it had been a host of. So it had done in the past. And so it would continue to do in the future.

But this was no ordinary forest. All forests are bastions of nature, championing life in its most primal form. This forest, however, was home to some of the most dangerous magical creatures in the world; creatures that teemed the forest with a combination of life and magic unlike any other. Some born here, some brought in from distant lands, carried in the pockets of travellers.

Today, they too had decided to hold their silence. For magic had demanded it.

Magic. At least that was what it had been called over the years, a testament to its mysterious and unexplored nature. It was present everywhere and affected everything.

Many believed they had discovered it. Some tried to study it, attempted to control it. A few even claimed that they knew everything about it. And time and again, they'd been surprised by its chaotic nature; what they had named impossible feats of magic.

But that all was nought for the forest. For the forest did not bother with believing in magic; it simply breathed it. It owed its very existence to magic and would one day owe its demise to it as well. It was far too detached to partake in its feeble, worldly motions.

After all, today had been one of those days, when these remarkable, the so-called impossible had happened. Right here, in the bosom of the wild growths. And the forest had still remained silent.

"_Pop_"

The soft sound was heard distinctly in the clearing of the forest, lying adjacent to the large and imposing stone castle that stood beside it. In a way, it marked the entrance to the forbidden depths that lay further ahead. The sound had marked the arrival of a tall, bearded figure appearing out of thin air. Old leaves crunched beneath his solid boots as he took in a deep breath. He savoured the earthy and musty smell of the forest floor before turning and taking in the sight of the magnificent structure behind him, his eyes shining with melancholy.

Once a stronghold against those who would persecute magic and witchcraft, its builders founded a school within it for training and preparing the younger generations in the art of magic. Hogwarts, it was called by its founders—Lady Helga Hufflepuff of Wales, Lady Rowena Ravenclaw of Scotland, Lord Salazar Slytherin of Ireland, and Lord Godric Gryffindor of England; and it had housed the future of magical Britain for the past millennium.

'This is no time to reminisce,' he thought to himself. 'Especially when there is work to be done.'

Walking a few steps, he started scanning the forest floor beneath him. It had to be somewhere here. His eyes wandered between the scattered leaves, the spectacles framing them helping him focus. It might have taken someone else a much longer time to find what he was looking for, but he was well acquainted with the object in question; perhaps even more than its creator. After a while, he doubled back—and that's when he saw it. Lying in the dirt, just as unassuming as the day he had found it.

He bent and picked it up. For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, turning the stone once in his fingers.

Should he? One last time?

"No," the man spoke softly as his palm closed around it.

Its work was done. The stone had served its purpose. Some things were not meant to be disturbed. Not anymore.

Taking a deep breath, he pocketed it. Turning on the spot, he disappeared with another pop.

* * *

The man reappeared hundreds of miles away, landing softly on the gravel underneath. Beside him, a lone rose plant was swaying slightly in the salty wind. His throat constricted as he glanced at the burnt down house in front of him. In all honesty, he wasn't ready to return here; not yet anyway. But it had been the perfect place for the next step of the plan. So, he was here.

Straightening himself he walked inside briskly, only to be stopped by the sheer amount of destruction that surrounded him. A surge of emotions welled within him.

'No time for that now,' he reminded himself. Time was of the essence to the plan, and he didn't have much of it to spare. In fact he had none of it to spare, and it was probably impossible to complete it without being in two places at once. The longer he spent fighting his emotions, the longer it would take for it all to end. And it had to end today.

In spite of his efforts, an image of the house's previous owners found appeared in his mind. A multitude of memories that he had built here with them flooded in his thoughts, the sorrow trying to surface itself.

"It's alright." The man reassured himself, his face breaking into a sad smile. "Death is but the next great adventure, right?" he said out aloud to no one in particular.

His sight lingered on the charred walls and upholstery adorning the room, and on the chandelier covered with soot. The floor was littered with broken glass and burnt splinters, and ivy had crept in through the hole in the roof over the years. Sometimes he forgot just how long it had been since that day.

Shaking his head, he continued inside. Taking long, purposeful strides, he walked by the stairs to enter a small room on the left. It was once a small parlour and looked like the only room in the house to have received any attention over the years. The floor was cleared of all debris, and the sparse furniture inside was in good condition. Today it had been converted into a makeshift laboratory.

Looking around he saw that everything was right where he would need it. His friend had done an excellent job.

Taking the small, round stone out of his pocket, he placed it on the table before him. He then pulled a long, white stick out of the leather brace on his forearm; much longer than could physically fit inside it. Pointing the stick at the stone, he began to flick it in complex motions, as if he were unwinding an invisible string wrapped tightly around the dull, grey stone. After about two minutes of doing this, he exhaled audibly, his arm silently falling back to his side. It was time for the next step.

The man pointed the stick once more at the stone and gave an almost imperceptible flick; the stone rose silently in the air. It was important that he not touch the stone at this time. Concentrating on the levitation, he slowly moved the stone over the next table, where a large round-bottomed crystal flask stood on a brass stand. A flame burned underneath, the lime green liquid inside the flask simmering in its heat.

He hovered the stone over the mouth of the flask. After a moment—which seemed to last forever—he finally let it drop in.

"_Psssttt_"

The stone fizzled in the liquid, dissolving slowly, making no noticeable change to it. After a moment, the man stepped forward and stopped the burner underneath. Next, he aimed the stick in his hand straight inside the mouth of the flask and made a swift, scooping motion; the liquid inside disappeared without a trace.

"Alright," he remarked aloud. "That's it then."

Although it had all gone according to plan, he couldn't help finding it a bit anticlimactic. Chuckling, he slipped the stick back onto the brace on his arm. He glanced at all the stuff in the room. He would ask his friend to take it all back.

'Or maybe not,' he thought. Perhaps he would return here himself. It was long overdue anyways. Shaking his head, he put the thought out of his mind. All that would come later. Now it was time for him to be someplace else. Walking briskly out of the room, he came into the entrance hall.

Looking around, the thought crept back in and he made his decision. He would return in a week and start the work on his next project right here. It was time.

After all, that was what _they_ would have wanted.

Smiling, he took in a long breath before leaving again in with a pop.

* * *

AN: Hello and welcome to The Three Brothers. This is Book One of Four and will cover Years 1-3 of Hogwarts. The story will stick close to the books in the beginning, with most events identical to canon being summarised for brevity. Major deviations in the story begin at the end of Year 1.

Obviously, the story has a slow buildup, and will be character-centric. I hope you enjoy it.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	2. Breakfast of Champions

**Breakfast of Champions**

* * *

29th November 1990

"Get UP!" the voice bellowed and pounded on the door for half a minute.

The only occupant of the room opened his eyes and silently sat up on his bed. Harry James Potter or _freak_, as he was commonly addressed to in this household, prepared himself for the day up ahead. The thin, worn-out mattress under him had been hardened by years of use. It was far from luxurious, but a much better alternative to his previous accommodations in the cupboard under the stairs. So, he had no reason to complain—not really.

Harry got up and exited the room—the smallest bedroom in 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He quickly made his way to the bathroom, aiming to finish his morning rituals as quickly as possible. Since he was given this privilege only twice a day for five minutes, he really didn't want to waste any of it. The memories of doing that were not pleasant, and Harry didn't have many pleasant memories to begin with.

He had been living with the Dursleys—his _relatives_ and adopted _family_—since he was a baby. For nine years he had called this miserable place his home, and he couldn't wait to get out of here one day.

This was actually the first rule that they had drilled into him; that this place was his home, whether he liked it or not. When he had asked why he was given a hard slap on his head and introduced to the second rule of the Dursley household; don't ask questions.

After finishing up in the bathroom, Harry proceeded to the kitchen to do his first chore of the day. Cooking breakfast for his family. The Dursleys liked to feed themselves as much as they disliked feeding Harry, and Harry was as thin as a stick.

"What took you so long, boy?" Aunt Petunia sneered at Harry from the table, a cup of steaming tea near her pursed lips. "Don't dilly-dally around now, _get cooking._"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied mechanically. Moving into the kitchen, he deftly picked up the skillet and set to make six-and-a-half helpings of breakfast—eggs and bacon with toast. Three for his Uncle Vernon, two for his cousin Dudley, one for his Aunt Petunia, and a half helping for himself.

As he worked in silence Petunia gave him a long look, looking for signs of insincerity. Not finding any, she returned her attention to the folded newspaper in front of her.

As Harry was frying the eggs, his thoughts drifted off to the dream that he had this morning. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. And a large man.

He had had this dream many times over the years, and he liked it better than the other one which he saw often. That one was quite unpleasant, with a woman crying and flashes of green light. His musings were interrupted by Aunt Petunia's shrill voice.

"Watch it, freak! Don't you dare burn the bacon again!"

Muttering a quick apology, Harry concentrated on the breakfast again. Once he was done, he ladled out the eggs and bacon on the plates, making sure the servings were correctly proportioned; his being the only one allowed to be lesser than usual.

He carefully brought the plates to the table and placed them at the appropriate positions on the table.

* * *

"Breakfast is served," Mark called out. "Come on dad, hurry up or it's going to get cold."

"Yeah, give me a second," the reply came back from the bedroom. Mark drummed his fingers on the table impatiently as he waited, his eyes darting to his plate every other moment.

The tall figure of John Smith soon entered the room taking slow but solid steps. Seeing the look on his son's face he couldn't help but comment.

"You know, you can start your breakfast without me, right?" John pulled a chair and seated himself gingerly.

"Yeah, right." Mark rolled his eyes as he started pouring his father his morning coffee.

"I'm serious," John replied. "Hell, you shouldn't even be the one doing the cooking in the first place. It's my job to take care of you."

Mark shook his head absently as he started pouring himself a cup of coffee. John swatted at his arm and gave him a stern look.

"What?" Mark looked at his father with careless surprise. "I stayed up late, okay? The performance? I was practising." Seeing the look on John's face, he grudgingly went for the juice. Remembering John's earlier remark, he replied.

"And Dad," Mark looked his father in the eye. "Your job is to get better; you understand?"

"Hmmm." John nodded through a mouthful of eggs. "You ready for the performance today?" His eyes looked over his plate to study his son.

If an outsider saw them together, it would not be immediately obvious that they were father and son. Mark had inherited his square jaw and strong nose, but that was where the similarities stopped. John was fair, with a head of dirty blond hair, while his son had the bronze complexion and jet-black hair of his late mother. John's eyes were a deep blue of the sea, while Mark's were a dark brown of ebony.

"Yeah, I guess," Mark replied. Buttering the toast in his hand, he continued with his eyes narrowed in concentration, "Just a bit nervous."

"You'll do alright."

"I know, Dad," Mark replied in an offhanded tone.

John smirked slightly at this from behind the steaming mug of coffee. Another thing Mark had inherited from his mother. Remembering something he had meant to talk to his son about, John put his mug down on the table.

"Listen, Mark," John said, assuming a serious visage—one that he had used when he had led his squad as Captain Smith of the 22nd Regiment, Special Air Services. "I don't think you should come to the hospital this week. Edwin and I can handle —"

"I'm coming, dad." Mark interrupted, not bothering to look up from his plate. "You handle the chemo better with me there, and I _know_ that for a fact."

"That is exactly why I don't wish you to be there, son. I know how hospitals affect you because of your ability. I don't want to unnecessarily expose you to it."

"Dad, it's been two years since I've had it under control. I don't get those episodes anymore. I'll be fine. So, don't you dare leave me behind," he said pointing his fork at John.

John grumbled his assent as he sipped on his coffee. His son had somehow managed to inherit the stubbornness of both his parents.

"I'm done. I better go and get ready." Mark looked at his father, who replied with a slight nod. Picking up his polished plate, he took it to the sink before heading to his room.

John smiled at the retreating figure of his son; at least he had done something right in managing to teach the kid some discipline. He had often feared that in Sarah's absence he would fall short in being a good parent.

He still remembered the early days of Mark's childhood, when he'd struggled with taking care of a baby. Sarah's mother had been a great help, babysitting Mark when he couldn't and guiding John through the motions of parenthood. But she too had passed when Mark was four, leaving it all on him. Somehow through all of it, John was proud of the person his son had grown up to be.

'But then, even my dad did alright with me.'

John remembered the bear of a man who had raised him. He would have loved to have a grandson like Mark. John had himself grown without the love of a mother; something that seemed to be the fate of Smith men in general. The thoughts of his Sarah pained him, more so than the physical pain his body had endured for the past six years.

"Bloody Leukaemia," John grumbled, snorting audibly moments later. That had been a good pun.

Smiling, he picked up the copy of Times on the table, going straight to the international section. The UN had sanctioned intervention in Iraq.

John wondered if his boys were going to be deployed. He would have to talk to Edwin about it later today. Shaking his head, he started going through the other articles on the page, scanning them for any significant information with an eye trained on reading intel reports for a decade.

A few minutes in, Mark reappeared in the kitchen. He was holding a large black case containing John's old bass, his schoolbag slinging on one strap.

"I've got everything dad. I'll see you after school, alright?" Mark pulled on the strap of his bag to stop it from slipping off his shoulder.

"All the best for today, champ." John looked over the paper with a small grin on his face. "Sweep them off their feet. Say hi to Ollie for me."

"I will. Bye."

* * *

"And thus, we can see that x+3y would be 90. Now if we had —," Mr Wiggins continued to drone on to his class who were silently taking down notes. Harry had already zoned out five minutes before, having solved all the questions in his head.

Since he wasn't supposed to answer questions anyway, he had distracted himself with other thoughts; namely the upcoming Christmas holidays. He wondered if he could convince Aunt Petunia to get him a pair of shoes. His current pair were in tatters, barely held together by tape. They wouldn't last past a couple more months. There wasn't a very good chance she might agree, however, since they had already donated Dudley's old pair at the charity collection in September.

"Mr Potter!" Harry's thoughts were interrupted as Mr Wiggins called out for him, his face barely holding in the contempt he had for the delinquent he believed Harry to be. "What is the answer to the third question?"

"43," Harry replied, after remembering that the answer was 42. A small wave of giggles broke out in the class, dying down at the look Mr Wiggins gave everybody. He then looked at Harry.

"Wrong answer. Pay attention boy, or I'm sure you wouldn't amount to anything in life," he snarled before continuing on with his lesson.

Harry simply nodded mechanically and zoned out on his teacher again.

.

.

"Seems you can't even handle simple maths, hun Scarhead?"

Harry closed his eyes, cursing inwardly. Couldn't he have a peaceful lunch just once?

Of all the names that Dudley and his friends used to bully him, Scarhead was the one that hurt Harry the most; not that he'd let them know it. After all, it was accurate in its description of the zig-zag shaped scar on his forehead just above his right eye, visible clearly against his pale skin. But that was not the reason he hated the name; at least not the only reason. The scar was an ugly reminder of the car crash that he had survived and his parents had not, leaving him to be raised in the custody of his Aunt Petunia—his only surviving family.

Grudgingly accepting his fate, Harry opened his eyes. In front of him stood Piers Polkiss, backed by members of Dudley's gang.

Now Piers was a smart kid, unlike the rest of his gang. He was the reason that they all managed to pass with decent grades in school. In return, he was able to act superior amongst all the bullies in Dudley's gang, despite his scrawny build and overall bullyable personality. Only Dudley ranked higher than him.

"Perhaps the freak has gone deaf," remarked Malcolm, another one of Dudley's gang.

"Let's smack him till he's cured then." Dudley face twisted into a sadistic grin before he lunged at Harry.

Years of reflexes surfaced themselves and Harry ducked in a fluid motion, his feet carrying him away as swiftly as possible. The others chased him through the schoolyard, but Harry managed to evade them successfully. That was until he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

"HARRY POTTER!"

Harry groaned. It was the English teacher, Ms Jenkins.

"Mr Potter!" she began, "You will not run around the playground like a ruffian, do you understand!"

"But, Ms Jenk —" Harry tried protesting.

"You may think it entertaining to behave like a delinquent, but it is certainly not up to this school's standards. Heaven knows how Mrs Dursley —"

"But —"

"No. No more buts, Mr Potter. I do not want any more of those pathetic excuses from you. Especially any trying to blame model students like Polkiss and Dursley. Is that clear?"

Harry suppressed his anger at the unfairness of it all, wondering again why he hadn't died in the crash that had scarred him. _Model students?_

"Am I being clear, Potter?" Ms Jenkins asked again.

"Yes, Ma'am," Harry replied softly, his head bowed in submission. Ms Jenkins looked down at the untidy mop of black hair and nodded once. Harry's eyes, hiding behind smallish round spectacles, watched her turned around and leave. Once she was out of sight, he let out a breath of relief, only to hear Dudley's voice behind him.

"So, you thought you could run away then?"

Harry groaned inwardly. It was going to be one of those days.

* * *

"Happy Birthday!" John wrapped his son into a tight bear hug, messing up his hair playfully.

"Thanks, Dad," Mark mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his sleeves.

"Finally, eleven! How does it feel kid?"

"Younger than twelve," Mark smiled sleepily. John gave him a pointed look.

"Sorry, okay? I feel great, Dad. Just a bit sleepy."

"You know, you must be the only kid your age who isn't excited about his birthday."

"Am I allowed to open my presents now?" Mark asked in retort.

"You can see them tomorrow, or rather today in the morning."

"Just as I thought. Nothing to keep me awake anymore," Mark dangled his words, but John didn't fall for the bait.

"Morning. Along with Edwin's presents"

"Hmmpf. Goodnight, then." Mark turned to leave. He reached the passage when John called out

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Mark turned and gave a tired smile.

"I Love you Dad. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, kiddo."

John watched Mark almost tumble off to bed. Damn, he really must have been tired. Deciding to stay up a little longer, John settled in his armchair.

'I'm lucky to have him,' he thought to himself. In all honesty, Mark was one of the few sources of comfort for John, especially since his diagnosis. He didn't know what he would have done if he was alone.

Eleven years. Time had really flown, hadn't it? A few more years and Mark would be a full teenager. John had no idea how to deal with a teenager. He'd be winging it. Then, he bet everyone else was winging it too.

Mark was growing quickly now, not unlike John himself. He'd probably end up crossing six feet like his old man.

'And not just growing vertically,' John chuckled to himself. In all fairness, it was time for the boy to start paying attention to his health. John had been lenient on him until now; perhaps it was time to change it.

Despite having been raised in the company of ex-soldiers like Edwin and himself, Mark had shown no proclivity towards exercise or sports. The only physical activity he would happily partake in was swimming.

'Maybe when he starts noticing girls.'

An image flooded John's mind—Mark, all grown up. His physique a copy of John's own, his face akin to Sarah's. A perfect mix of both his parents. A sight that would make any parent proud.

Sarah. John's thoughts turned to his dead wife, and how she had missed seeing her boy grow up.

Before the thoughts turned to melancholy, he took a deep breath and winced at the pain in his lungs. He would never admit it but having Mark by his side during the recent treatments did really make a difference. But the effect the trips had on Mark…

Being surrounded by sick and suffering patients—that couldn't be a bearable experience for Mark. Or anybody else burdened with his ability.

'Maybe he really has it under control now,' John wondered. Mark had not shown any signs of discomfort lately. He had been—indifferent.

An errant thought entered his mind. Could Mark be using his ability to alleviate his pain? Immediately, John dismissed his thoughts. He had no way of knowing the truth, and he feared he didn't really want to.

John looked to his left at the small stack of neatly wrapped presents on the couch. They were mostly books; encyclopaedias and textbooks that Mark had lingered near during their last visit to the bookstore. Picking up the topmost from the pile, he ran his hand over the smooth gift paper.

"The Feynman Lectures on Physics," he muttered allowed, remembering the contents of this one. He had gotten these on the suggestion of one Jeremy Watts—Engineer, and brother to Sergeant Watts from his old regiment.

He had sounded like a bright lad when John had spoken to him on the phone but had staunchly refused to believe that a ten-year-old had already gone through sixth form science workbooks. Watts had finally relented to John's requests for suggestions by mentioning this book—'Bloody brilliant,' he had called it.

John put the package back on the pile. His son was probably going to grow up to be a scientist of some sort. The amount of time that Mark spent tinkering around with books and his electronics kit was evidence for it.

'Got it from his mother. She would have...'

John stubbed the thought before it could grow any further. He turned his thoughts towards his other present for Mark; the special one.

The black and gold custom Stratocaster had not come cheap, but John thought it worth every penny. His son was a damn better guitarist than he ever was, and his old Bass was just putting a limit on Mark's talent.

'At least he knows how to have fun. Got that from me,' John smirked. Looking at the radium hands on the kitchen wall, he saw it was quarter-to-one. He had been up long enough.

Getting up he stretched himself. Giving the pile of presents a last look John headed to get some sleep. On his way, he stopped to look at the sleeping form of his son.

'Happy Birthday kiddo.'

* * *

AN: There are a few changes from the books that I'll be making (like Harry living in the bedroom already). When I do, I'll be mentioning them explicitly somewhere. The portrayal of Harry's relationship with the Dursleys is one of the things I don't like in the books, so I'll be changing it a bit.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	3. A Fine Summer Morning

**A Fine Summer Morning**

* * *

22nd July 1991

_"__It's the eye of the tiger, it's the dream of the fight  
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival  
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night  
And he's watchin' us all with the eye of the tiger"_

Mark swayed his head to the beats of the song, his headphones sitting atop his head. They were connected to a blue Sony Walkman, currently playing a mixtape titled _"Rock 3". _Mark's eyes were glued to the book in front of him; a fascinating chapter on electromagnetic radiation.

The late July sun shined through the window in the bedroom. Mark was seated on the only chair in the room, a blue high back swivel type, his legs resting on the single bed. The wall to his left had a tall bookshelf standing beside his wardrobe, filled with books old and new. The wall behind him was plastered with posters of his favourite rock bands—The Who, Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, and The Beatles.

At the bottom stood three guitars kept resting on their stands. One, a second-hand sunburst acoustic, the first guitar that Mark had learned to play on. The second was a black Washburn AB10 Acoustic-Electric guitar which once belonged to his father. And lastly, his latest birthday present—a black and gold custom 1987 Fender Stratocaster.

Mark's attention wavered from the book in front of him, his eyes making their way to his new guitar. A giddy smile graced his face as he admired the work of art. He still couldn't believe he now had something so beautiful, even though it had now been almost eight months since he'd gotten it.

'Dad really outdid himself,' Mark thought to himself. It was difficult keeping something a secret from him due to his ability, and he really marvelled at the way his Dad managed to do just that. He'd known his Dad had gotten him the books, but not about the guitar.

He wondered if there was another decent drummer at school. Now that Ollie had moved out of the city, he had no friends left to jam with. Of course, there was Steve, but he was a right git. Even though Mark had been the better guitarist of the two, he had refused to swap for Mark's Bass while they were preparing for the performance.

Well, now Mark had a guitar too. So, Steve had been a bit more bearable the last term, now that he no longer felt possessive of his own guitar. Mark knew this because he had _gleaned_ it using his ability.

His ability. He still remembered when it had first surfaced itself. As a child, odd things had often occurred around him. But his ability; that had happened when he was eight.

Realising that his thoughts had drifted away from the book he had been reading, Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of his chest heaving. It was Edwin who had taught him this meditation technique in order to help him control his ability, but Mark found it just as useful to apply whenever he lost focus.

Edwin. That old man had no idea what he was getting into when he agreed to help Mark. An eight-year-old who could suddenly hear the thoughts of everyone around him? Certainly not covered in the SAS situation control manual. But Edwin had helped, for he had seen the pain in Mark's eyes, plagued by the silent cries of the sick that no child should witness, let alone feel.

So, he had helped. In six months, Mark had gained a semblance of control. Another six, and he could now close off ay errant thoughts around him. That was two years ago.

Mark had wondered if his ability was some form of superpower. Maybe he was some form of mutant, just like Professor Xavier from the X-Men comics. He'd borrowed a few of them from Steve's collection. Well, he wasn't exactly like the professor; he'd never managed to actively control or implant a suggestion into another's mind. At least not yet.

Perhaps he was more like Jean Grey. She had telekinetic powers, in addition to her telepathy. When Mark had read about it, he'd tried to do that himself. He wasn't sure about the results. The book he'd tried to levitate did float a quarter inch off the table, but only for a few seconds. At least the coin had floated for a couple of minutes; he'd even managed to spin it in mid-air.

The only one he had told about this was his dad. In spite of the fact that his dad had never been anything but positive towards him, Mark always felt nervousness when something like this happened. He knew it was stupid, but that was the truth. Having an insight into the minds of other people had taught Mark a valuable lesson—People hate what they fear, and they fear what they cannot understand.

On learning that his son could now perform telekinesis, albeit, in a limited capacity, John Smith had just smiled softly before wrapping his son in a tight hug. No words were spoken, for none were necessary.

As Mark breathed in and out, he finally felt the fleeting emptiness in his mind. Drawing himself back from the depths of his own self he opened his eyes, ready and focused once more. He resumed his reading of the passage on polarisation and was soon engrossed in it. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang.

"Don't get up. I'll get this," John's voice came in through the living room. Mark smiled. His dad was much better this month. The recent treatments had been showing positive results. He turned his attention back on the vector algebra of polarisation, the page illuminated by the bright summer sun.

* * *

The bright summer sun shined on Harry as he pulled a rather stubborn weed from the garden bed. He hummed a tune in his head as he worked in the quiet of the late summer morning, sweat dripping down his forehead. As he lost himself in the monotony of the work, he wondered about his most recent punishment. Or rather the cause of it.

It had been Dudley's birthday, and to the Dursley's luck, there was no one to look after Harry for the day. Mrs Figg, a batty old neighbour who usually took him had broken her leg. Harry had offered to stay alone, but the Uncle Vernon wouldn't have it; he didn't want to come and "find the house burnt down".

So, after long deliberation, Harry ended up accompanying them to the zoo. Harry had been secretly happy about this; he never got to go anywhere special, not even on his birthday.

The day had gone great. The exhibits were interesting, and Harry had even got an ice-cream—a cheap ice lolly. Granted, it was because Dudley had dropped his sundae and when Uncle Vernon went to get another, the ice-cream man had given him a funny look for not buying anything for Harry.

The day did not stay great, however. It all happened when they entered the reptile house and encountered the boa constrictor. Somehow Harry had managed to talk to it, and it had responded. When Dudley saw this, he shoved Harry. What happened next was unclear, but the glass holding the Boa Constrictor in vanished and the snake managed to escape. Harry could've sworn he heard it hiss "_Thankss amigo_" as it slithered past.

The moment they had returned home, Harry had been locked in his room, his limited meals being delivered through the cat flap in the door. By the time he was let out again, the summer holidays had begun.

'Well it wasn't its fault,' Harry said to himself, thoughts of the boa-constrictor entering his mind. 'It just wanted to be free. Just like me.'

He often wondered when he would be free of the life he was living. Maybe once he was eighteen, he could get out of here. There were jobs in construction and heavy labour in London. Perhaps he could even get a job as a clerk in some office; even though he was forced to downplay his competence, his marks weren't that bad.

"BOY! You better not be messing up my yard!"

Harry was jerked back from his thoughts by the loud voice of Uncle Vernon coming from inside the house. Harry hated Sundays, even when it was school time. There were double the chores, nowhere else he was supposed to be, and Uncle Vernon would be home eager to torment him.

"Just eight more years of this," Harry grumbled to himself, before turning his attention back to the weeds before him. After ten years of living with the Dursleys, Harry didn't expect any sort of affection from them. He had given hope on that long ago.

He chuckled; if one day they did decide to be nice to him Harry would probably have a heart attack from the shock. By now it was much more natural for them to be mean to him. After all what reason did they have to love him?

Harry had often thought of his parents and wondered if they were hiding somewhere instead of being dead. Maybe they were secret agents, like the ones on the movies on the telly, out there saving the world. Or maybe they were just like his aunt claimed them to be; deadbeat good-for-nothings who got killed in an accident while driving drunk.

As he worked, a tall shadow appeared and covered the now high sun.

"How far along are you?"

Harry turned to look at his Aunt. The sun in his eyes forced him to squint.

"Just about halfway done. I'll let you know when I'm finished, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied with a forced, but polite obedience.

She looked shiftily at him, then glanced around the yard as if expecting something to appear.

"Don't try to be clever, _freak_. Just get the work done," she said before turning back and going into the house.

'That's odd,' Harry pondered. 'She's been doing that ever since I've been let out of my room.'

It had now been a week since his month-long punishment had ended. Still, it was much better than the one he had gotten for changing the colour of his teacher's hair to blue in primary school_. _That had also earned him a month, but that had been in the cupboard, with almost no food. At least this time he was in his room.

Even though he had lived with the Dursley's for a decade, the house showed no signs of anybody beside Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley living there. There were zero photos of Harry, nor were there any memorabilia. The one small award he had won in school two years ago had been binned the moment he had gotten home.

Before he had been given the room, it had been Dudley's second bedroom. A room that he used to store the toys he had broken or got bored with. Harry still remembered the tantrum that Dudley had thrown when the room was taken from him. Uncle Vernon had been forced to raise his voice at his son for the first time, all because Aunt Petunia had heard certain rumours in the neighbourhood.

The news was going around that child protection services were conducting raids in Surrey, and the Dursleys were not stupid enough to want a child being found sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. Of course, Harry wasn't given this reason. He was told that as he was now growing too big for the cupboard, they had decided to reward him with the room to sleep in.

His room. The only thing that could be truly called his were the few school things he had; everything else was a hand-me-down that once belonged to Dudley. If Dudley had been older than him, Harry was sure he would have had to do with his school things too

'At least they would have been unused,' he joked to himself.

Other than the sparse mattress and the broke toys that were piled in the corner, Harry's room was bare. No paint, no decorations. The Dursleys refused to spend anything on Harry.

His door was a different story. There were three bolts on it, all on the outside. A cat flap was installed at the bottom, even though there was no cat in the house. It was put there specifically for him when his punishments demanded him being locked inside.

A commotion down the street drew Harry's attention. He peered out of the yard to look down the street.

'Shit.' It was Dudley and his gang coming up, obviously done with whatever thuggish activities they spent their summer doing. When they would reach here, they would probably be wanting to play one of their favourite games—Harry Hunting.

It was funny in a way. On seeing Harry, dressed in baggy old clothes and broken glasses, everyone thought him to be the troublemaker, when it was Dudley who was the actual troublemaker and bully in the neighbourhood.

Harry looked at the garden bed in front of him. The weeding was almost finished. He started working faster, hoping to finish before Dudley reached here. At least then he would have the chance to make his escape.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. The previous one was one of the earliest things I had written and had many mistakes.

As it is evident, there are a few things that differ from canon; specifically Harry's life at Privet Drive. These have been done to better flesh out the character I have in mind for Harry, and will be explicitly mentioned.

This chapter, along with the previous one, set up the contrast between Harry and Mark. The plot now takes off in the next chapter.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	4. Albus Dumbledore

**Albus Dumbledore**

* * *

22nd July 1991

"Mr Smith, I presume? I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, the deputy headmistress at Hogwarts School. I am here to talk to you about your son. May I come in?"

John surveyed the tall middle-aged woman in front of him. She was dressed smartly, although her fashion style was out of date by around thirty years. A thin face and sharp nose, a set of square spectacles were resting on the bridge, and a set of thin lips gave her an appearance of someone not to cross.

"Yes, please come in," John answered, his trained eye completing it assessment—_Not a threat_. He swept his hand towards the living room, gesturing his welcome. The woman nodded and followed him in.

As she walked in, John wondered why this lady was here. They certainly hadn't applied to any school. Once she seated herself on the couch, he voiced his question.

"You say you're from a school? Are you here to offer Mark a position there?" John asked before remembering, "Oh, how rude of me. Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"No, thank you," came the polite reply, followed by a muttered, "Perhaps that would be a good demonstration."

John nodded and sat himself on the armchair. This lady—professor he reminded himself—was one of the most intriguing figures he had ever met. And as a former SAS captain, that list was not easy for someone to get on to. Now that he observed closely, she was clearly older than sixty, but her movements held the spryness of someone much younger. Although she was not a threat, everything about her was contradictory.

Her mannerisms were that of a teacher, but behind them were reflexes of a fighter. Her eyes held the experience of an academic, yet they had scanned the room for danger the moment she entered through the door.

She had definitely seen combat action but was clearly not in that role today. After all, female soldiers weren't unfamiliar to him; he had encountered his fair share of them all around the globe.

The way she carried herself, John would've assumed that she was armed with a weapon—if he hadn't known better, that is. Perhaps it was an old instinct she hadn't gotten rid of completely.

"Is your son at home today, Mr Smith?" asked the lady in front of him, bringing John's attention back into focus. Before he could answer, however, a voice carried in through the hallway.

"I am."

John turned to see Mark, who gave him a grin as he walked in towards him.

"Ah, young Mr Smith. As I mentioned to your father, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts school in Scotland." Once both father and son had her full attention, she continued,

"Before I proceed any further, I must ask a few questions if you don't mind." She removed a small piece of paper from the small bag she was carrying. It was yellowed and thick, and John would've guessed it to be some sort of parchment.

After seeing affirming nods, she proceeded, "Now, you are Mark John Smith, born Thirtieth of November Nineteen Seventy-Nine, correct?"

"Yes," Mark replied. The professor tucked the parchment back in and looked at them again, her eyes tightening with seriousness.

"Now Mr Smith," she said, her voice delicate, "has Mark ever done something odd, something unusual? Something you couldn't explain, perhaps?" Her eyes were watching the two of them for any hint of reaction. She must have found some, for her face assumed a brief sense of triumph.

John wondered just what exactly was going on. Who was this lady? He glanced sideways and saw Mark's eyes peering at her. Moments later, however, his son smiled.

'Okay. It can't be that bad then.' Still, John needed answers. Deciding not to let her off so easily, he gave his reply.

"Yes." The professor smiled and gave him a slight nod.

"Mr Smith, this might be a little difficult to believe at first, but your son Mark is what we call a _Wizard_." She took a brief pause, waiting for the words to sink in. She must have been expecting an angry retort but was pleased when none came.

"You're not joking," John observed.

"No Mr Smith, I am not. Your son is a wizard, just as I am a Witch. I am the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I am here to offer Mark a place at our school."

John observed the professor silently, trying to see any sign of dishonesty. Finding none, he surreptitiously glanced at Mark. Seeing that his son wasn't giving him any signal to the contrary, John continued the conversation.

"Can you show us some proof of this? This—uh—witchcraft?"

"Magic. That's what we call it," she clarified. "Certainly. Since earlier we discussed having tea, let me conjure a pot of tea right now."

She drew a long wooden stick from her dress, a few inches shorter than a foot. Holding it in her hand she began her explanation.

"This here is a wand. Witches and wizards use wands in order to channel their magic," She spoke as she simultaneously performed a complicated wave of her wand and pointed it at the table in front of her. John watched dumbstruck as a beautiful porcelain teapot and three matching cups and saucers appeared out of thin air. The pot was likely full of tea, for he could make out wisps of steam escaping through the spout.

While Mark was watching all this with a scientific fascination, John's earlier instincts were confirmed; this wand had been the dangerous weapon he thought she had been carrying.

The professor then gave her wand a small flick and the cups began filling themselves before floating towards John and Mark, who was slack-jawed at the incredible sight.

"The existence of magic has been kept a secret from non-magical people by the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, in effect since 1692." She took a sip from her cup before continuing in a manner that indicated that she had given this speech many times before.

"Hogwarts is the oldest magical school in Europe and it has trained young wizards and witches for more than a millennium. I myself am the Professor of Transfiguration, and Mark would be studying in the company and under the tutelage of some of the finest minds of Magical Britain."

She took another sip from her cup, then set it down on the table.

"Before I proceed further, here is the Hogwarts acceptance letter that I'm here to deliver," she said, fishing out a yellowed envelope made of thick parchment and handing it over to Mark.

* * *

_Mr__ M. Smith,_

_Second Bedroom,_

_24, Beauchamp Road,_

_Battersea, London_

Mark studied the emerald green lettering on the thick envelope, all the while digesting everything that he had learnt. He could make out his father asking some questions about the curriculum, fees, and such; His Dad was nervous, and he could sense his apparent relief at the explanations provided by the elderly witch about Mark's abilities. The answers that professor McGonagall provided his father were of little interest to him since he had already _gleaned_ them out of her head.

That's not to say he had invaded her privacy; on the contrary, he had just plucked out the information she had held in front of her mind as she must have prepared to explain to his Dad and him. He used the same technique in class at school and managed to learn much quicker than his peers.

The mind worked in a vastly different manner than most people thought. Mark had gone through enough books on brains and neuroscience, and even though he didn't understand them fully, he got the gist that no-one really understood the mind either.

Mark broke the red seal on the envelope and drew out the heavy parchment inside. As his fingers brushed the heavy parchment, his thoughts drifted to his Dad.

He couldn't leave him here, could he? What about the treatments? Not that his Dad couldn't take care of himself. And Edwin would be there to help. But could he just leave?

The guilt slowly began to gnaw at him, and he glanced at the seated figure of his Dad. He hadn't seen his father this enthusiastic about something for a long time. His Dad turned to look at him that very moment, and he must have sensed Mark's apprehension.

"I'll be fine, champ," he reassured, giving Mark a definite nod. Mark smiled in reply, then turned his attention to the now unfolded letter in his hand.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL**

**_of_**** WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY**

**Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
(_Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards_)**

**Dear Mr. Smith,**

**We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.**

**Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.**

**Yours sincerely, **

**Minerva McGonagall,**

**Deputy Headmistress**

'Albus Dumbledore'. Mark recalled the image of the bearded man he had seen in the professor's mind. His thought tapered off as he turned to the second piece of parchment, a list of supplies he was expected to bring.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL**

**_of_**** WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY**

**UNIFORM**

**First-year students will require:**

**1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)**

**2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear**

**3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)**

**4\. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)**

**Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags **

**COURSE BOOKS**

**All students should have a copy of each of the following:**

**The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk**

**A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot**

**Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling**

**A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch**

**One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore**

**Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger**

**Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander**

**The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble**

**REQUIRED EQUIPMENT**

Set of Basic Potions Ingredients, Level 1

Parchment (At least 12 rolls)

Ink and Quills (Self-writing/Quick Quotes Quill NOT permitted)

**OTHER EQUIPMENT THAT ALL STUDENTS MUST OWN**

**1 wand**

**1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)**

**1 set glass or crystal phials**

**1 telescope**

**1 set brass scales**

**Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad**

**PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS**

It was possibly the most bizarre list of things Mark had ever thought he would read. Now finished with them, Mark passed both the pieces of parchments to his Dad. He turned to Professor McGonagall.

"Where will we find this stuff, Ma'am?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Here in London, Mr Smith. In Diagon Alley"

"London?" John looked up in surprise from the parchment in his hand. "You're saying there's a wizarding market here in London?" he asked in amazement.

John was already sold on the idea of his son being a wizard, given that he had seen proof enough of magic. He had not detected any dishonesty in the Professor over the course of their conversation, and most likely neither had Mark.

John was no fool; he knew Mark must have read the professor's mind the minute he entered the room, and frankly, he did not mind his son's vigilance.

"Indeed Mr Smith," the Professor answered with a kind smile. "If I have your agreement, I would like to escort you to Diagon Alley on your first trip as a guide and to assist in the shopping of the school supplies."

"Splendid," John answered immediately, squashing any errant objections that Mark may have had on the grounds of his Illness. He was feeling great. After all, his son was a _Wizard._

* * *

"So Albus, how have you been?"

The man in question was seated on the plush Indian style diwan, adorning the luxurious sitting room of his host, sipping on a cup of earl grey. Lifting his twinkling blue eyes, he answered with a smile.

"As good as can be expected, my friend. Overseeing Hogwarts is one of the few responsibilities I enjoy shouldering." Pausing to take a sip, he continued. "Cornelius insists on owling me frequently—asking for opinions on outlandish proposals. I do manage to persuade him to divert the funds to something useful, but he seems stuck on reviving the Triwizard Championship."

He would not have shared such potentially sensitive information with anyone, but his host was no ordinary wizard. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had known him for almost a century now, which was but a fraction of the six-hundred-sixty-plus years that Nicolas Flamel had been alive. And knowing Nicolas, he would have to offer juicy information to make him open up; even though it had been Nicolas who had requested this meeting.

"Has he gone mad?" Nicolas scoffed. "The Triwizard Championship was discontinued for good reasons. Why, by the last one it had turned into a poor effort at pumping national pride. I should know. I was there," he added with an air of authority

"I think Cornelius wishes it to go down as one of the few accomplishments under his term as the Minister of Magic," Dumbledore replied, absently stroking his beard.

"Then he's just a selfish fool, who doesn't care for the students who would be participating," cried Nicolas. His exclamation brought his wife into the room from the adjoining library.

"Come on dear, you're exaggerating it a bit too much," she remarked, taking a seat beside him. "I'm sure Albus would not let the children come to harm."

Albus couldn't help but beam under her praise, just like he had all those years ago. Madam Perenelle words had always held a special place for him.

"Yes indeed, Perenelle. I will try my best. The safety of the students has always been the most important thing," he took a sip of his tea, "Although I do hope that the plan falls through," he added, more to himself.

Now finished, Albus set the cup on the table in front of him and looked at the couple in front of him. To an outsider, it would seem as if he were the senior person here, with his almost white hair and beard. With a slight peppering of grey in their hair, both Nicolas and Perenelle hadn't seemed to have aged a day since the first time he had met them when he was just a boy.

Although he knew the secret of their excellent health, he chose not to comment on it. It had long been a point of debate and disagreement between them, and today was not the occasion for it. Albus decided to get straight to the pertinent question now that the pleasantries were concluded.

"So Nicolas, Perenelle," he looked at them both, "what is the reason that you called for this meeting? What can I help you with?"

Nicolas seemed hesitant to begin, and Albus deduced that this must have been his wife's idea. He turned and looked at Perenelle, who was sitting upright and had a serious expression on her usually impassive face.

"Well Albus, it is quite simple. News has reached our ears that dark forces are after the Stone." She took a pause before continuing, "Not your ordinary thief, mind you. They have skill, whoever they are."

Albus was fully attentive now. The Stone was one of the most powerful artefacts in existence. Its safety was paramount. But why were they telling him?

"How can I help?" he asked. The Flamels had been close friends of his for many years, but they rarely made any requests of him. So, he was ready to help when they did.

"Well, we want you to protect the Stone at Hogwarts." Her tone indicated that this was not a request.

Albus was taken aback. Nicolas and Perenelle had never let anybody even handle the Stone without their supervision. Even during the height of the last war, they had always taken the responsibility of protecting the stone onto themselves. What had changed?

Taking a stab in the dark, Albus made a guess.

"You're growing weak."

Nicolas widened his eyes, clearly disturbed at the implication. Perenelle's face, however, showed no emotion as she confirmed Albus's statement with a dispassionate nod.

"Nicolas has already moved the stone to a safe location," she took a pause, squeezing her husbands' hand beside her. "But I fear that it's not safe enough"

"Perhaps you should consider…"

"_No,_" came the immediate response, this time from Nicolas. "It is out of the question. We are _not_ destroying the stone. And bear in mind Albus, _you will not_ either," he added with a hint of warning.

They had always reached the same impasse every time the topic of the Stone was brought up.

"Our need for the Elixir is not our primary motivation Albus," Perenelle interrupted, partly to quell the growing tension. "There are still many unfinished projects we are working on. You of all people should understand the importance of magical research."

Albus decided not to stoke the argument any further, and Perenelle continued.

"And as far as the Stone is concerned, it's not just protection we are after." She looked Albus directly in the eyes. "We want you to capture the one seeking it."

"But —"

"You know the castle of Hogwarts is best suited for this purpose. You have complete control over those who enter its grounds." Taking another pause, she added, "And as I said earlier, I have complete faith in your ability to ensure that the students don't come to harm."

Albus smiled despite himself. Perenelle knew exactly what to say. After a rather long pause, he gave a slight nod.

"Alright. I may have a few ideas on how to do this." He took a pause. "But it will take time. Months, perhaps."

"You won't have that much. No more than a week at best," Perenelle replied. Albus gave a tired sigh at this and nodded again.

"Where is it now?" he asked, already having a guess to the answer.

"In a high-security vault at the London Gringotts."

* * *

AN: Dumbledore will be another POV character in the story, with occasional appearances that give a glimpse into his perspective and the constraints he was operating under. I am not a Dumbledore basher; rather he's my favourite character in the series.

Since the canon books are primarily Harry's perspective, his parts are relatively shorter and passive as long as the story follows canon. Once the major divergence starts (middle of Year 2), his POV will become more active.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	5. The Wandmaker

**The Wandmaker**

* * *

22nd July 1991

"The Goblins are a prideful race, Mr Smith," Professor McGonagall informed her quarry as they exited Flourish and Botts, their book shopping now done. "Despite a bloody history between the two races that is marred by the many wars and rebellions that took place, wizards and goblins now enjoy the longest period of peace and cooperation recorded."

She turned to look at her new student, her legs still striding towards their destination.

"You will learn all about it in your History of Magic Classes, of course. Professor Binns is one of the most experienced teachers at Hogwarts," she added. Mark nodded as he followed her, trying to get as much information as he could from both her words and her thoughts. She didn't seem as confident about Professor Binns as she claimed to be, for example.

Mark's Dad followed the two of them, lagging behind a few steps as his head swivelled around to examine the various eccentricities of Diagon Alley. Gold cauldrons, silver telescopes, flying broomsticks, people dressed in bizarre robes; the wizarding world was even more colourful than they had imagined. Their next stop was to purchase a wand for Mark.

They had finished all the other stops on their list, and Mark had never had a better day before. Okay, maybe when he got his guitar. Still, it was a great day so far. Once they got in the alley through the portal in the Leaky Cauldron, their first stop had been the goblin bank Gringotts. After exchanging the pounds for galleons, they began the shopping. School robes at Madam Malkins, brass instruments from Wiseacres, nasty ingredients from the Slug and Jiggers apothecary; Mark's school term was going to be really interesting.

During all this, both Mark and his father had kept up their steady barrage of questions to the professor. Mark could make out that under her professional exterior, she was actually pleased with the questions that the two of them had for her.

Mark's thoughts were interrupted as Professor McGonagall slowed down. They had reached their destination

"Since 382 B.C.?" he heard his Dad ask in an incredulous tone. Ollivander's Wands was apparently an old establishment.

The moment they opened the door, a small bell jingled somewhere inside the shop. It was a bit dusty everywhere, and the smell of old musty paper and curing wood wafted through the shop. Mark looked around, examining the tall shelves filled with boxes that seemed to dominate the interior, reminding him of an old library.

"Good afternoon," a voice spoke, an undercurrent of wisdom ringing through the room. Mark turned to see an old man standing in front of him, with pale eyes and white wispy hair. Before Mark could wonder about his identity, Professor McGonagall spoke up.

"Good afternoon, Mr Ollivander." Her tone was curter than usual, and Mark sensed an impatience within her. The old man—Ollivander—looked straight at her, and a twinkle emerged in his old eyes.

"Ah, Minerva McGonagall. Fir, nine-and-a-half-inches, very stiff. Excellent for transfiguration, if I recall."

"Indeed," the professor replied after a tired sigh.

"And who is this?"

"Mark Smith, sir," he replied, a tad too excited. Something about all this felt right.

"Well, Mr Smith, let's find you a wand shall we. Now, which is your wand arm?"

"Both, I guess," Mark answered noncommittally. He was mostly ambidextrous. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, indeed it does. You see, Mr Smith, it is the wand that chooses the wizard. And a wand behaves differently in different hands." Ollivander looked at him, excitement evident on his face. "For you, that means we will have to try twice the number of wands."

A measuring tape that had been resting on Ollivander's shoulders rolled out and began taking various measurements, from Mark's shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and then round Mark's head.

"Each Ollivander Wand is unique to the wizard, and you will never get the same results with another wizard's wand. As each wizard is unique, so are the magical creatures that give their cores to the wands." The voice came in from deep inside the shop, where Ollivander had disappeared off to while his seemingly sentient tape kept his audience occupied.

"We here at Ollivander's use the heartstrings of Dragons, Unicorn tail hair, and sometimes the feathers of Phoenixes," he finished as he returned with a dull looking box. Opening it he offered the wand inside to Mark.

"Ebony and unicorn hair, eight-and-a-half inches. Go on, try it".

Mark put his hand in the box and picked up the wand inside. Seeing an encouraging nod on Ollivander's face, he gave it a wave. Weak sparks emerged from it, and he saw surprise etch itself on the face of Professor McGonagall.

"Interesting. Very Interesting," said the old wandmaker, drawing out the words as he observed the wand in Mark's hand. Abruptly, he straightened himself and plucked the wand from the hand of a now confused Mark.

"Do you have any control over your wandless magic, Mr Smith?"

Mark's confusion deepened. Wandless magic?

"I'm not sure. I mean, I can float a coin in my hand," he answered weakly, not wanting to get into his mind reading abilities, at all. From what he had seen in Professor McGonagall's mind, it was an uncommon ability even amongst magical folk. His Dad had obviously picked up on it, for he just kept silent.

"You can _float_ a coin in your hand? _Purposefully_?" Professor McGonagall was staring at him like he had grown another head. Mark nodded weakly.

Okay then. Wandless magic was _also_ uncommon in wizards. Noted for further reference.

Ollivander seemed to have picked up on his discomfort, and he gave Mark a warm smile as he returned with a small pile of boxes.

"Do not worry, my boy. It just makes you a trickier customer than usual."

After going through two more piles of boxes with similar results, Ollivander went in and returned with a single box.

"I wonder now. Here try this. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven-and-a-half inches."

Mark reached in to pick up the wand, a sensation of unease slowly rising within him. His fingers curled against the handle, and an unwelcome warmth flowed through his hand. He kept it back immediately, his action almost involuntary.

"Curious. Very, very curious." Ollivander looked at Mark, trying to figure something out. His eyes scanned the young wizard in front of him, coming to linger momentarily over the silver locket that rested around his neck. The old man's face broke out in a kind smile.

"I think I now have an idea as to which wand will be yours, _Mr Smith_."

* * *

23rd July 1991

"So Albus, what is this about?" asked Minerva tiredly, her Scottish brogue seeping in through her words. "I still have two more muggle-born students to meet," she informed her boss, rising him from some deep thoughts.

Albus watched his long-time friend and protégé slumped in on the armchair in his office. This time of the year was especially exhausting for her.

"Oh! Wonderful. How were the students that you did meet? You know I love hearing about your interactions with the new muggleborn students, Minerva." His curiosity was genuine; something about people experiencing magic for the first time brought him happiness. Minerva smiled and took in an audible breath before replying.

"Well, Ms Granger is an enthusiastic young witch. She was most excited to join the magical world and know all about the subjects that would be taught here. Kept asking questions about everything. Reminded me a little of the Lily Evans I had met all those years ago," she said fondly.

"Not completely, mind you. Ms Granger is far more competitive and academically inclined. Her parents indicated that she's a studious pupil that strives hard to get the best grades at everything. Doesn't have many friends at her primary school." Minerva took a pause before continuing, more to herself. "I do hope she manages to do that here, in the company of other students like her. Her parents were worried about that."

"A possible Ravenclaw?" Albus offered as he popped a lemon drop in his mouth. They often had friendly bets amongst themselves about where some students might get sorted.

"Maybe." Minerva shrugged. She looked at Albus, who somehow managed to look sophisticated while sucking on a piece of candy.

"Well, it seems Ms Granger would be a good addition to whichever house she's sorted into."

Minerva nodded half-heartedly to that before a twinkle emerged in her eyes.

"Mr Smith, on the other hand, was quite an interesting study," she said as if dangling a juicy bait. Albus caught on to it immediately.

"Do tell." Minerva grinned, and swiftly leaned forwards towards him with catlike grace.

"Would you believe me if I said that he can do a controlled levitation charm," she took a dramatic pause, "_wandlessly_?"

Albus stared at her, his mouth slightly hanging open. He must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Really?" he asked, after taking a moment to compose himself. Minerva's grin only widened.

"Indeed. He demonstrated it to me with a galleon, after we left Ollivander's. He was hesitant at first; my initial shock didn't help the matter much. It took some reassurance from my side before he could proceed," she recalled.

"But once he did, it was much more impressive than I had imagined. He even spun the coin mid-air!"

"Interesting," Albus muttered to himself. "What more did you observe? Is he studious?"

"In a manner of speaking," Minerva drew-out her reply. "From what his father told me he voraciously pursues anything that interests him, but only makes passing efforts in the rest of the subjects." Taking a pause, she continued,

"Both father and son are quite intelligent actually. The questions that they had for me were refreshingly complex and challenging to answer." After a moment she added in an amused tone, "Evidently, Mr Smith is fond of muggle rock music. He asked me if he could bring his guitar to Hogwarts in order to practice."

Albus chuckled at this, a sense of relief flowing through him. Thankfully Mr Smith was well-loved in his home. Looking at his deputy, he decided to go for one of his favourite sayings

"You know what I think of it, Minerva. Music is a magic —"

"— a magic beyond all we do here," she chimed in.

A nagging doubt entered Albus's mind. He considered having it clarified.

"Just out of curiosity, what kind of wand chose Mr Smith?" Albus asked almost hesitantly. _Please don't say holly, please don't say holly._

"Applewood and phoenix feather," came the tired reply. "Apparently it was the oldest wand in the shop, even older than Ollivander himself. It took us over an hour to find it," Minerva explained.

Albus felt his mouth curl into a smile as his worry disappeared. He decided it was time to move on to the real purpose of this meeting.

"Mr Smith does seem to be an interesting young wizard indeed," he said in an offhanded tone, drawing Minerva's attention. "I need your help with something, Minerva." Peering down his half-moon spectacles he added in a grave voice, "Something extremely sensitive."

Minerva straightened herself, her attention fixed on her mentor. Albus continued,

"We need to protect a certain artefact inside the castle, and I need you to devise protections for it." He let the information set in. "Dark forces are likely to be involved in its search. I have already recruited Severus for this. I will also ask Filius and Pomona, but only he and you are to know the real objective; We mean to trap the would-be thief red-handed."

"And what is this artefact?" she asked. His response was almost hesitant.

"The Philosopher's Stone"

* * *

25th July 1991

"— we can see that by only depicting a single open curtain, the author seems to portray loneliness in —"

Mark had already zoned out, his hand propping the weight of his head on the desk. Of all the subjects, he hated studying languages the most. And English was the worst.

'No, the author just probably forgot to mention the other curtain,' Mark mocked in his mind. 'Or perhaps he wanted to vex literature students' centuries after his death.'

His mind wandered to the subjects he'd be studying at Hogwarts. He had already finished the book on Magical theory by that 'Waffing' guy. It had quite a lot of information, but most of it was just anecdotal and empirical. He hoped to buy some more comprehensive books on the subject when he went back to Diagon Alley on Sunday. He also hoped to browse all the other shops more thoroughly. There were probably interesting things to find in Knockturn Alley, but Professor McGonagall had specifically forbidden him from going there, and the place was probably not that welcoming to an eleven-year-old like him. So that would have to wait until he was older.

Upon his Dad's insistence, they had purchased a few extra items and even an upgraded trunk. It was expensive, but Mark had agreed after listening to his dad's reasoning that it was a one-time purchase that should last him for several years. It had three compartments that somehow occupied the same physical space. As if by magic.

Growing up with his dad, money had never been an issue for them. His father's savings and pension were respectable, and his mother's family had been rich, so all of the wealth was to be passed on to him.

Mark's hand slipped underneath his shirt and subconsciously searched around. The worn-out edges of the silver locket brushed his fingers, and he ran his thumb over the intricate pattern. It was one of the few mementoes that he had of his mother. It had been a family heirloom, passed on from his maternal grandfather to his only daughter, and now to her son.

His mother. Sarah Smith had been a kind and loving woman. At least that was what everyone always said.

Mark hated the fact that he could barely remember her. Even her face was something he had only visualised through photos—her voice from the memories that he had _gleaned_ from his dad. Nothing else to go on.

She had died barely a month after he had been born, on the very night of that Christmas. As he grew up, he never really noticed her absence; after all his dad took care of him pretty well. There had never been a moment where he had actually wondered where his mother was.

By the time he grew older, he knew enough to not wonder anymore. There was no sense of emptiness or of missing out on anything. Just an academic curiosity that needed fulfilment. At least that was what he thought it was.

So, he had gone to Edwin. He hadn't wanted to disturb his Dad with sensitive questions about his dead wife—forcing him to relive painful old memories. Not when he had just been diagnosed with leukaemia.

Edwin had understood and done his best. He told stories of how his parents met, how a young and sophisticated investment analyst fell in love with a rough and handsome soldier, and how they got married. How his mother had a sharp wit and a lovable personality, and how she wanted to raise a family with the man she loved. What exactly Mark had missed out on.

And now, there was a very good chance that his Dad might leave him in a few years.

Mark wasn't naïve; he was well acquainted with death. His dad had gone over everything with him, everything he would need to do after. They had even jokingly dubbed it their 'Protocol Valkyrie,' referring to the real operation Valkyrie that took place during the second world war.

But all the humour in the world couldn't mask the cold hard truth behind it. Mark wished it would take as long as possible to become a reality. Just give him _some more time_.

Mark shook these thoughts from his mind, instead choosing to think of his new wand. Ironically it had been the oldest wand in the shop as Ollivander had informed him excitedly. Truthfully, by that time, Mark was just glad about the fact that a wand had chosen him at all.

The applewood wand was much longer than he had expected; at fourteen and a half inches, it was longer than even his thigh. He needed to find some way to properly carry it on his person, just as Professor McGonagall had. Maybe he could fashion a holster of some sort, with some of the stuff he had in his room.

After they had returned home from their shopping trip, Mark had spent the evening studying the old piece of craftsmanship under a magnifying lens, hoping to understand what seemed to be an extremely sensitive form of magic. Perhaps one day he could learn to make his own wand.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There were POV inconsistencies, and thus the rework is extensive.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	6. Anticipations

**Anticipations**

* * *

31st July 1991

Harry looked down at the reddish wooden wand in his hand. Today had been the best birthday—no, scratch that—the best day of his life. He was a _wizard!_

Now seated on the thin mattress back at his room, he still couldn't believe all that had happened the past week. He knew he couldn't describe the sheer joy and the multitude of feelings that welled in his heart to anyone; he just wouldn't know where to start.

Magic was real and Harry was a wizard, just like his parents had been. In another month, he would be headed to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to learn magic. According to his new (and rather large) friend Hagrid, this was the finest school of magic there was. But more importantly, he would be going away from the Dursleys, if only for ten months out of twelve.

It had all begun on Wednesday morning when a letter arrived in the mail for him. Harry had never before received a single piece of correspondence in his life, not even from the library. So, to say he had been surprised to find someone writing a letter to him was an understatement.

Uncle Vernon had been of the same opinion, dismissing it as some mistake as he snatched the barely opened envelope from his nephew. Only, it wasn't, since it had been clearly addressed to _Mr H Potter, Smallest Bedroom, 4, Privet Drive_. That specifically meant Harry.

To Harry's surprise, Uncle Vernon had then recognised the sender and driven both Harry and Dudley out of the kitchen. Aunt Petunia had looked scared, as if being haunted by some ghost she had left buried in the past, while Uncle Vernon had been mad about the fact that someone was apparently spying on the Dursley household. What had followed next was utter madness.

More and more letters arrived for Harry every day. Uncle Vernon boarded up the mail slot, and they still arrived. He closed up the windows and filled the door cracks. But the letters arrived all the same.

When the letters came down the chimney and blew out the electric fireplace, Uncle Vernon had snapped and forced them all on a wild road trip. They drove around for over two days, trying to escape the mysterious party that seemed hellbent on contacting Harry. But the letters had still followed, so they ended up in the middle of nowhere, at _Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea_.

At least that was what the last letter had been addressed to, when it was personally delivered last night by the largest person Harry had ever met, Hagrid. He had explained all about magic and his parents and had given Harry a birthday cake; the first birthday cake that he could remember having.

In the morning they had gone to Diagon Alley, to shop for all the weird stuff that was on his school supply list. And it had been truly magical. The Alley was a wondrous place, and Harry wished he had another set of eyes to have experienced everything fully. The trip had been the most fun he had had, in like, _forever_.

Thanks to his parents, Harry now had a small fortune in Gringotts, the wizarding bank. He was actually thankful that Hagrid had been there with him on the trip, or he would have ended up buying expensive and possibly useless stuff with all the money he now had. He remembered the solid gold cauldron and winced. That would have been really embarrassing for him, turning up to class with a gold cauldron while everyone else used pewter.

He still wished that he could have bought the book on curses and counter-curses, but Hagrid had stopped him, saying he was too inexperienced with magic to try any of it. Plus, he learned that he couldn't actually _do_ any magic outside of his school till he was older. So, it wouldn't be of any help against Dudley.

The thoughts of his new wand took him back to the conversation he had had with Ollivander. The old man had made Harry uneasy, and not just by his general behaviour. He had told Harry that his wand—Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven-and-a-half inches, shared a core with the wand of the man who was responsible for his parents' death.

_Voldemort_. Harry recalled how terrified Hagrid had been, even when saying the name of the dark lord. He had told Harry the truth of the night his parent died; truth that the Dursleys had denied him all his life.

His parents had been no deadbeat drunks. No, they had been heroes; brave heroes who had fought dark wizards alongside Albus Dumbledore, who according to Hagrid was the greatest wizard since Merlin. The Dark Lord Voldemort, or as he was more commonly known, _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ had been their enemy in the war that ended ten years ago.

Ten years ago, on the night of that Halloween, Voldemort had come to the Potters house and killed Harry's parents. He had then tried killing Harry. But for some reason, it didn't work. For some reason, Voldemort failed.

Instead, a one-year-old Harry had somehow managed to destroy the greatest dark wizard who lived; or at least that was what the wizarding world believed since Voldemort had not been seen since that night. All of this led to the magical world nicknaming Harry to be _The-Boy-Who-Lived_, and he was hailed as a hero throughout.

All this had been a little difficult for Harry to believe at first, but after he was mobbed by a large group of his admirers the very moment he entered the Leaky Cauldron, he managed to grudgingly accept it.

Living as he had with the Dursleys, Harry had certainly never felt like a hero, let alone some powerful saviour.

The thought of the Dursleys reminded him of the fact that they had known about his being a wizard; they had _known_. Oh, how they had repeatedly reminded him of the burden he was, the freak child born to deadbeat parents. They had denied him the memory of his parents and had insulted it every day of the ten years that he had spent here.

Harry shook himself free of further thoughts. Today had been a good day, and he didn't want to spoil it at all. He turned and looked at the magnificent snowy owl that was currently sleeping in its cage.

It had been Harry's first real birthday present, and he had almost broken down in tears when Hagrid handed it over to him. All that was now left was for Harry to give his new pet a name. He decided to go through his books; maybe he would find a suitable magical name somewhere for the majestic bird.

Almost involuntarily, his eyes darted to the makeshift calendar that was stuck to the wall. It was a piece of paper that marked the number of days that were left for him to leave for Hogwarts.

Counting down the days before he left the Dursleys behind, Harry found himself anticipating the arrival of September first.

* * *

3rd August 1991

"You sure of this John?" Edwin asked his long-time friend. "About this school? It's legit?"

"Yes." John smiled and nodded. "Mark's going to be fine. This school—I can feel that this is the right thing for him."

Addressing the lines of worry etched on Edwin's dark forehead, he continued, "Besides I told you about the professor, right? She's the real deal."

Edwin sank back into the chair, his mind unable to grasp the root of his discomfort. It had been five years since he retired from active duty, and he had grown protective of Mark since.

"I trust your judgement. It's—It's just that —"

"You're going to miss him?" John finished his statement for him. "Yeah, me too."

Edwin wondered how Mark had managed to soften two tough sods like John and him. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for that kid. Trying to look at the bright side, he turned back to John.

"But hey! He'll be learning to do magic, right? I still can't believe it, you know," he trailed off.

When Mark had demonstrated that trick with the coin, he had seriously thought the kid was some sort of a superhero.

"To be honest, it freaked me out for a second," John confided in him, "But only a second." Chuckling darkly, he added, "Can you imagine the stuff that'll be possible if you have those abilities, out there in the field?"

"That's what bothers me a little, John. These people, living in secret like this," Edwin said. All of this had been swirling around in the back of his mind ever since John told him about the hidden magical world.

As a soldier, his first instinct was to distrust anyone who hid themselves and operated in secret. He could understand the logic behind it, but his heart was threatening to point the other way.

"Mark's one of them now, you know," John said softly, breaking the silence that had followed.

Edwin thought about Mark being a wizard, dressed in long robes and a pointy hat. He chuckled. That was so not like the kid.

"I know that kid. He'll somehow find a way to put a leg on both the worlds."

John nodded thoughtfully before his face lit up as he remembered something.

"You should've seen the stuff they had in the alley," he said, "Did Mark show you what we got?"

"Yes," Edwin answered. "Dragonhide gloves. Still can't fathom that actual dragons exist, let alone that I held something that was made from its hide."

"It's crazy," John said, a look of childlike amusement on his face. Edwin looked at his friend and smiled inwardly.

Even though John didn't realise it, Mark's fascination with building and tinkering with stuff actually came from his father. Edwin still recalled the many times John had rigged up some contraption while they were on the field; the creative streak ran through both father and son.

He was brought back from his musings when John asked him a question.

"Have you decided what you're getting him? As a going away present?"

Edwin laughed out loud. Trust John to find any excuse to buy something for his son. In a way, it was a running contest between the two of them; who could get Mark the most thoughtful gifts.

"You pamper him, John," he spoke once his laugh had subsided. John gave him a pointed look in reply.

"You didn't answer my question"

Edwin was about to reply back how he had an ace up his sleeve—or rather, his boot—today when the sound of the door interrupted him.

"Hey Dad, I'm home."

* * *

Mark closed the door with one hand, his other trying to hold on to the guitar case. He hoped his Dad had made some preparations for dinner already; he was famished.

"I talked with Mr Cayley and informed him that I won't be coming in from Septem—Oh hi Edwin."

Mark was slightly surprised to find the old man seated on his sofa when he remembered his dad telling him that he was joining them for dinner tonight. Mark slid the strap of the guitar case off his shoulder and leaned it against the wall, before trying to resume what he had been saying.

"Where was I—oh yes—I told him I won't be coming in from September. He was alright with it."

"That's good. You will be taking your Sunburst with you right?" his Dad asked.

"And your Washburn. Won't be plugging it in, though." Seeing the confused look on Edwin's face, he explained. "Professor McGonagall warned me that electronics go haywire in a highly magical environment. Don't want to burn the internals."

"It's a shame. I was hoping that you'd be able to take the Strat with you," his Dad added. Mark nodded in reply as he slumped beside Edwin on the sofa

"Yeah. I've been thinking about it though. What if I rig up some sort of shielding for it? A protective bubble or a Faraday cage of sort," Mark said, more to himself than the others.

"Seems like you're all set to go to Hogwarts then," Edwin remarked. Mark turned to face him and let out a deep sigh.

"I'm still having second thoughts. Did Dad tell you everything? Should I go to this school?" He tried controlling the doubts and growing anxiety that threatened to spill out. Finally, he looked him in the eye and voiced out the elephant in the room. "I don't want to leave Dad alone for his treatments."

Edwin returned his stare for a few moments, as if forming his thoughts. Finally, he spoke.

"Well, he did tell me a lot —"

"And? What do you think?" Mark interrupted. He saw Edwin look at his dad, and they had a silent conversation of sorts.

"I think you should go," he finished. "Looks like this is something that you really like and enjoy, and I'm sure that it will be good for you in the long run. After all, you're a wizard now," he chuckled.

"As for your Dad, let me worry about him. We old geezers now how to take care of ourselves," Edwin reassured Mark. "We often did you know, like back in —"

Mark found himself leaning closer before he realised that Edwin was having him on.

"Oh, come on," he said, frustrated. "Every time. You do that every time."

"And yet you still fall for it," his dad said. He was right; Edwin had tried this many times before, dangling away some offhanded remarks about the various classified missions he had been on, and Mark's curiosity always made him take the bait.

"Since we've now decided that you will be going to your new school," Edwin interrupted the conversation, "I have a parting gift for my protégé."

Mark watched as Edwin slipped his hand down his boot and unhook something. He picked it and flipped it mid-air before holding it out for Mark to take. It was a combat boot knife, complete with a sheath and elastic strap.

"From what I can tell, this magical world may not be that safe. So, I want you to have this." Mark reached out to grab the knife, but Edwin held it back. Looking directly into Mark's eyes, he spoke in the most serious tone Mark had ever heard him use.

"It's a dangerous weapon, to be used only in emergencies." Mark swallowed the small lump in his throat, understanding the gravity of the situation. Edwin continued, "No showing off or fooling around okay?"

Mark nodded in agreement and took the knife in an almost reverential manner. He promised himself to treat it with the utmost respect and seriousness. He glanced at his father, who smiled in encouragement and gave his son a small nod. Mark took a deep breath and strapped the knife to his own ankle. It fit perfectly.

His father decided to break the silence, trying to return the mood back to normal.

"Remember champ, we both want you to do your best and enjoy at Hogwarts. And do try and make friends, alright?" he added in exasperation.

Mark winced inwardly. His reluctance to pursue friendships was one of the few points of disagreement between father and son. Mark was already introverted by nature, and added to his ability, he had always avoided socialization in the past. But maybe that would change when he got to Hogwarts; after all, there were bound to be other kids like him.

Marks stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts.

"Why don't you go and get freshened up before dinner," his dad said. "We're having curry rice tonight."

"Grandmum's curry?" Mark asked and got an affirmative nod in response. His face lit up and he hurried to his room to get changed. His Grandmum's curry was one of his all-time favourites, an old Indian recipe that she had passed on to her son-in-law. It was another of those things that brought him closer to his mother.

As he unbuttoned his shirt, Mark found his mouth already watering, anticipating the taste of perfectly marinated fish.

* * *

23rd August 1991

"Stupid Git!"

Ginny let out a short scream of frustration and stomped on the ground. Usually, she wouldn't have acted out like this, but she was really mad at her git of a brother today and there was no one around here.

She kicked a small pebble into the distance before collapsing grumpily underneath the crooked apple tree. Ginny often came here when she wanted to be alone, sitting quietly to enjoy the soft sounds of the orchard around her. This was her favourite tree in the whole orchard mainly for two reasons.

Firstly, it was the oldest tree on the property, having survived five generations of Weasleys before her. And Ginny had a fondness for old and broken things. Secondly, it was sufficiently isolated from the house, so none of her idiot brothers could come to disturb her here.

She wondered whether other girls had similar problems with their brothers, but she guessed they didn't. After all, Ginny Weasley was the only sister to her six older brothers, the seventh child of Arthur and Molly Weasley.

The youngest amongst her brothers was responsible for her current mood. He had pissed her off just a few minutes ago, claiming she was 'too little to play with the boys.' All because he had received his Hogwarts letter last month.

If she was being honest, Ginny had been holding on to some futile hope that she too would get her letter this year, despite her still being only ten. Perhaps the school deciding to invite her a year early because she was so good. Or perhaps by some mistake of whoever wrote the letters. Anything to be not left alone with her mother at home all day while her dad went to work.

Her dad. Ginny loved him dearly and considered him the best dad she could've ever asked for. Aside from being the kindest and bravest man she knew, Arthur Weasley worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the Ministry of Magic in London. More specifically, he worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, a job that she knew he enjoyed very much.

He was an inquisitive man by nature and was fascinated by Muggles and their life. He often spent his spare time studying and tinkering with all the weird muggle stuff he brought in from work, the shed in the garden being his workshop.

This was one of the few points of contestation between him and his wife Molly in their otherwise happy marriage. She thought this whole behaviour was too childish and immature for someone his age, and often brought it up in their conversations. Ginny, on the other hand, thought her Dad was a genius.

Arthur had tried to get his children involved in his experiments over the years, but only his eldest, Bill, and his youngest, Ginny, had shown any real interest in their father's passions. Bill, who was also Ginny's favourite brother, had graduated from Hogwarts three years ago and was now working as a curse breaker in Gringotts in Egypt.

Ginny remembered the complaints her mother had put forth when Bill had announced his decision. She hadn't understood why her son, who had earned twelve OWLs and had been the Head-Boy at Hogwarts, would choose such a dangerous and poorly paying job.

Even more arguments had broken out when Ginny's second oldest brother Charlie had also followed in Bill's footsteps, choosing to risk his life in an obscure career in dragon-handling over a glamorous one in Quidditch.

Her mother's hopes now seemed to be resting on Ginny's third oldest brother Percy, the perfect son. He'd nearly been insufferable all summer, pompously prancing around with his shiny new Prefect badge, a symbol of his obedient and studious nature. That had drawn the wrath of his younger twin siblings Fred and George, who had pranked him mercilessly, with occasional help from Ginny as well.

Ron, the subject of her current anger, was Ginny's youngest brother. Being so close in their ages, they had often been forced to play together, when they were little. Even though Ron had recurrently complained about having to 'play with a girl', he had always stood by her, defending her occasionally from Fred and George's more meaner pranks.

But that had changed when he realised that he would be going to Hogwarts this year, free to leave his annoying little sister behind to make new and cooler friends.

Now, in a weeks' time, Ginny would be left alone at home. Her mother would no doubt keep her occupied with the cooking and cleaning and knitting and all the other activities she thought were appropriate for a young girl to partake in. If she was lucky, Ginny might get to spend a few hours playing with her friend Luna Lovegood, who lived just over the hill from the Burrow, which was the Weasley's home.

There would be very little chance to sneak up to Bill's room and read the books kept there in his library. Heaven forbid if her mother ever found out about Ginny 'borrowing' her brothers' brooms from the shed to practice flying. No, Ginny's mother insisted that she behave more ladylike, expecting her to one day become a dutiful witch married to a respectable wizard.

As these thoughts swirled around her head, Ginny found her eyes misting. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she steeled herself to wait one more year. Another year, and she would be on her way to Hogwarts, free to choose her destiny just like her brothers did.

As the sun slowly waned, Ginny found her anger and sorrow dwindle itself, her heart eagerly anticipating the day she would turn eleven.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV, and the dialogue lacked oomph.

This chapter sets up Ginny as another recurring POV. Obviously, Year 1 has little sense from Ginny's POV, but that'll change once Year 2 starts.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	7. The Beginning of a Journey

**The Beginning of a Journey**

* * *

AN: The text in **bold **has been borrowed directly from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ by J.K. Rowling

* * *

1st September 1991

Neville Longbottom was irritated. The stupid toad his Great Uncle Algie had bought him had run away twice since they had arrived at Kings Cross Station. Holding Trevor tightly between his clasped hands, he walked towards the compartment in which he had placed his luggage earlier.

To be honest, he was not that fond of Trevor. Toads certainly weren't his thing, nor were they currently in fashion. Neville wasn't sure when they had been. Probably when Great Uncle Algie was at Hogwarts.

But on the platform, amongst the hundreds of students scrambling to get on the Hogwarts Express, there was a good chance of his new pet getting squished underneath someone's foot or an oversized trunk. God forbid if someone tried feeding Trevor to their owl. His pet might be a hassle, but it was his responsibility to take care of.

Now outside his compartment, he tightened the grip on the toad with his left hand while he jiggled the latch open with his right. He had barely taken a seat when the door slid open again.

A bronze skinned boy stood in the doorway, with a large black bag slung on one shoulder and a trunk at his feet. He was about the same height as Neville, if not slightly taller, and had long black hair framing his slightly chubby face.

"Hey mate, you mind?" the boy, nodding towards the empty seat in front of Neville. Growing up as he had with his Gran, Neville hadn't ever heard anyone talk so casually. He realised that the boy was still waiting for a reply.

"Um, yes. Come in."

The boy gave him a small grin and turned to pull on his trunk. Neville watched with fascination as he managed to balance the black bag on one shoulder while hoisting the trunk up on the rack. The boy rested the tall bag beside him, which Neville now noticed was of a peculiar shape; it was narrow at the top, and slowly widened as it went down, before bloating up into an oblong frame.

Following the manners drilled into him by his grandmother, he decided to introduce himself to this newcomer.

"Neville Longbottom," he said offering his right hand. The reply was not one he expected.

"Your frog, mate."

It took a moment for Neville to register that he was referring to Trevor, who had jumped out at the first opportunity and was now making his escape.

"Oh no, Trevor." Neville bent down and scooped the errant amphibian. Looking back at the boy, he clarified. "It's a toad, actually. My Great Uncle Algie gave it to me," he explained sheepishly.

"I think it wants some humidity," the boy said, his brows furrowed. As if struck by something obvious, he turned towards the large bag and fished a weird looking bottle from it. Unscrewing the cap, he poured some water on the floor of the compartment just underneath the window.

"Here, try this. I think Trevor might like it."

Giving a small shrug, Neville let his toad down in the small puddle and was surprised that his normally hyperactive pet didn't jump out.

"Oh yeah," said the boy, sweeping his hair back with one hand. "I'm Mark. Mark Smith." He offered his hand to Neville and shook it with a firm grip. Neville made a mental note to shake hands that firmly from now on.

"Are you from a wizarding family?" asked Mark.

"Yes. I'm a pureblood. What about you?"

"I'm a first-generation wizard."

Neville was about to tell him that the commonly used term was muggle-born when he stopped himself. Obviously, Mark must be knowing that. If he did not use it, instead opting for a rarely found archaic term, then it had to be by choice. It as wiser to stay silent. Fortunately, Mark asked the next question.

"Do you know if owls make good pets? I considered getting one in Diagon Alley, but Professor McGonagall informed me that there are school owls available at Hogwarts if I need them," he spoke in short rapid bursts, as if his words were struggling to keep up with his thoughts.

"Well, yes," Neville replied, his gaze moving momentarily towards Trevor, "they're quite intelligent. Much more than most people realise. These owls are magical you see, different from the common non-magical ones you see elsewhere."

"I live in London. Would that be a problem? Delivering mail and such?"

"They normally know to deliver mail at night. Be generally unnoticed. Great Uncle Algie once said something about concealing spells and such, but from what I remember they tamper with the owl's sense of direction or something." Neville tried to recollect anything more he could but came up short. "You don't want a cat? Or a toad?" he added as an afterthought.

"Not really a cat person," Mark said. "Plus, I have herpetophobia, so toads are out"

"Pardon me? You have what?"

"Herpeto—it's a fear of reptiles," Mark glanced at Trevor, who was basking in the sunlight from the window, "and other related animals."

"Oh."

Neville didn't know what to say. He hadn't even known such a thing existed. His face must have shown confusion, because Mark tried to clarify himself immediately.

"It's a mild one, not—I've gotten over it mostly." He spread his hands about six inches wide, in a rough measurement of size.

"We had these—these lizards at my Grandmum's place. An infestation of sorts. Freaked me out as a child." Looking at Neville, he continued, "Am okay with being around them now. Just not as _my_ pet."

Neville realised he was trying to make peace with him, all with Trevor being his pet. Though he wanted to tell Mark that he wasn't that fond of Trevor himself, Neville didn't. It felt good to be thought about.

"What house do you think you'll be sorted into?" asked Neville, deciding to change the topic.

"Dunno. Whatever they decide, I guess. Haven't given it much thought, really. What about you?"

"My dad was in Gryffindor, though I guess I'll end up in Hufflepuff," said Neville, the anxiety that had gripped him since he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter surfacing itself.

"You don't sound too happy about it," Mark observed. "Isn't Hufflepuff the house of the loyal and hardworking?"

"It is …" said Neville, pausing to word his next statement properly. "It's generally also considered as the house where—where the duffers end up."

Mark looked at him with an incredulous expression. Recognising the silent acknowledgement, Neville continued,

"I'm not a talented wizard, so it's pretty much a given that Hufflepuff's where I'll end up."

Mark opened his mouth slightly as if he wanted to say something. But he didn't, evidently choosing not to comment on Neville's statement.

"My Gran actually thought I was a squib until I received my Hogwarts letter. Hadn't seen her that happy before," Neville added in a soft voice. Realising that he had shared more than he had intended to, he clammed his mouth and straightened himself.

"What about your parents? What do they think?" Mark asked Neville, the question piercing right into his Achilles heel. His face must have shown immediate discomfort, for Mark seemed to have realised his mistake.

"It's alright if you don't tell me. It's none of my business," said Mark.

Neville nodded weakly, grateful for Mark's thoughtfulness. An uncomfortable silence followed for a few minutes, with Mark staring out the window, while Neville focused on the silently napping Trevor.

Eventually, Neville's gaze fell onto the large bag again, and his curiosity spilt out.

"What's in that?" he asked.

"It's a guitar case," answered Mark. Neville's face must have been as blank as his mind was, for Mark tried to clarify.

"It's the bag for my guitar. It's a musical instrument."

"Like a piano?"

"Well, no. But actually yes. Technically they're both stringed instruments," said Mark, speaking more to himself now. He must have realised that he was only confusing Neville further. "Here, why don't I show it to you."

Opening the bag, he carefully removed a large wooden instrument, which Neville recognised from a poster of Weird Sisters he had seen in Diagon Alley.

"Oh, I've seen that before. Didn't know it was called a guitar." A moment later he realised something. "You know how to play that?" he asked with a hint of awe.

"Yeah," said Mark, "been playing for four years now. Want to listen?"

* * *

"Now I don't want to hear a single complaint about the two of you from Professor McGonagall this term. If I get a hint, the smallest —"

Ron watched his mum drone on to his elder twin brothers. He sighed. Even though it was his first year at Hogwarts, the first time he would be going away from home, his Mum had already forgotten about him. Of course, there had been the usual hovering while they approached the barrier. But once they were across, she had better things to do than worry about him.

He looked towards his baby sister Ginny who was crying silently. She would be left alone with Mum this year. Although she could be a bit annoying, Ron had always been fond of her. He gave her a small smile. She must have understood what he had been thinking about, as her tears stopped to return his smile.

"I need to get on the train Mum," Ron said a bit loudly, trying to get her attention. His Mum turned to look at him and frowned. before taking out her handkerchief

**"Ron, you've got something on your nose," **she took out her handkerchief and Ron tried to jerk out of her way as she approached. It didn't work as she managed to grab him with a strong grip and began scrubbing on his nose as if it were a dirty plate.

**"_Mum_—geroff." He finally wriggled free.**

**"Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?" said one of the twins**, taking advantage of the fact that their mother's attention had now shifted.

**"Shut up," said Ron**, angry at the stupid teasing of his brothers. His mother was not paying attention to them, her eyes scanning the platform instead.

**"Where's Percy?" said their mother.**

**"He's coming now."**

Ron's third oldest brother came striding into sight. **He had already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, a shiny red and gold badge with the letter P pinned on his chest.**

**"Can't stay long, Mother," he said in his usual pompous tone. "I'm up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves —"**

**"Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?" said one of the twins, with an air of great surprise. "You should have said something, we had no idea."**

**"Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it," said the other twin. "Once —"**

**"Or twice —"**

**"A minute —"**

**"All summer —"**

**"Oh, shut up," said Percy**, clearly irritated. Ron smirked. As much as he hated the twins picking on him, he loved when they annoyed Percy.

**"How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?" said one of the twins.**

**"Because he's a prefect," said their mother fondly. "All right, dear, well, have a good term — send me an owl when you get there."**

**She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.**

**"Now, you two—this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you've — you've blown up a toilet or —"**

**"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."**

**"Great idea though, thanks, Mum."**

**"It's not funny. And look after Ron,"** his Mum added, almost as an afterthought.

**"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us."**

**"Shut up," said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it raw.**

**"Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?"**

Ron was getting impatient, and almost missed the exchange.

**"You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?"**

**"Who?" **she finally asked, irritated at their antics

**"Harry Potter!"**

**"Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please. …"** Ginny piped; her crying forgotten.

**"You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?"**

**"Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there **—** like lightning."**

**"Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform."**

**"Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?"**

**"I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don't you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school."**

Ron noticed his mother was being more protective to Harry Potter than she had ever been of him.

**"All right, keep your hair on," **Fred replied.

The train blew its whistle, prompting Ron and the twins to clamber on the train. Ron turned to wave at Ginny. She was laughing at George's joke about toilet seats while running to keep up with the moving train.

As the Express left the platform Ron started to search for a compartment, anxious about his first year at Hogwarts.

* * *

Hermione caught a hold of the guide rail running along the passage as the Hogwarts Express swayed underneath her. She was making her way to the next carriage; her previous encounter having filled her with some confidence.

She had just finished exchanging introductions and pleasantries with three first-year girls like herself—Mandy Brocklehurst, Sally-Anne Perks, and Megan Jones—and she had found out that despite being purebloods and half-bloods, only one of them had bothered opening any of their schoolbooks.

Being a muggleborn herself, Hermione had been extremely anxious regarding her own lack of magical knowledge. So, she had decided to introduce herself—and in the process, assess all her fellow first years on the Express.

As she neared the next compartment, she could hear faint sounds of someone playing the guitar inside. Curious, she slid the door open to look inside.

There were four occupants; all boys. Two of them—dressed in black Hogwarts robes like her—were half-standing-half-sitting on the seats. They were older than her, both having identical red hair and freckles, and to Hermione's surprise, identical grinning faces.

The other two occupants looked her age but different otherwise. One was dressed in an old-fashioned shirt, with pale skin and short blond hair, while the other was dressed in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and jeans, his hair long and skin light brown. He was the one playing a large guitar, and had stopped to look at her when she opened the door.

"Can I help you?" he asked, snapping Hermione from her reverie.

"Oh, yes. I'm a first-year, so I decided to visit all the compartments and introduce myself to everyone," said Hermione, "I'm Hermione Granger, muggleborn. Are you first years too?"

Her tone must have been a bit fast, for the blond boy seemed dazed and the black-haired boy widened his eyes. The two twin redheads were unfazed, however. They turned to look at each other, their grin widening before they turned back.

"Fred and George Weasley, third-years, at your service," they both said simultaneously while offering their hands—one his left while the other his right —for her to shake. "Nice to meet you, Hermione Granger Muggleborn," they added as she shook them.

Hermione was about to retort to their obvious attempt to tease her when the black-haired boy intervened.

"Nice to meet you, Hermione. I'm Mark." He took a small pause to brush the hair off his face, "Mark Smith." Pointing towards the other boy, he added, "This is Neville Longbottom. We're both first years as well." Hermione noticed him give Neville a small kick on the foot, which brought the boy out of his stupor.

"Uh, hi," Neville offered with a weak smile, trying to hide his earlier awkwardness.

Realising she would have to take charge of the conversation if she wanted answers to her questions, Hermione took this as an invitation to join the boys in the compartment. She walked in, '_accidently'_ shoving both Fred and George before taking a seat beside Neville.

"Are any of you Muggleborn?" she asked.

Neville and the Twins shook their heads, while Mark nodded with a bit of reluctance.

"Yeah, I am."

"Oh, wonderful!" said Hermione, "I was so shocked at first, you know, when Professor McGonagall came to our house to tell me I was a witch. Then she turned the desk into a pig, and I found out about magic. Was it her that came to your house too?"

"Yes."

"Did she take you to Diagon Alley too? Isn't it wonderful?" Hermione spoke, her enthusiasm genuine.

"It's great." Mark's enthusiasm didn't seem to be so genuine.

"Have you read any of our textbooks?" Hermione was having to control herself from asking all her questions at once. It was a sure-fire way to scare someone off, as she knew by experience.

For a moment Mark's eyes looked straight at her, as if trying to see through her. He then shifted slightly in his seat before answering.

"Yeah, I skimmed through them. Surface reading of sorts."

"Really?" asked Hermione, finally happy to meet someone interested in their studies. "I've read them too. Actually, I managed to memorise some of them," she added sheepishly. "What do you think of the first chapter from Standard Book of spells; the one on the power draw procedures?"

* * *

Neville watched in amazement as the girl—Hermione Granger—kept asking questions to Mark, her tone picking up pace like the Express pulling out of Kings Cross. To top that, Mark was able to match her pace in answering, though his replies were short. Evidently, he wasn't keen on elaborating any more than what was required of him.

Neville turned to share a look of incredulity with Fred and George, who were barely managing to hold in their laughter. Clearly, Hermione Granger didn't know when to stop.

The Weasley twins had entered their compartment a couple of hours ago when Mark had been demonstrating the guitar to Neville. They were there to prank the 'firsties,' but on seeing the guitar they had been distracted long enough to forget about it; they were both fans of the Weird Sisters.

After that, the four of them had talked about anything and everything. The twins, who were both great guys, told them stories of various pranks that they had already pulled off during their two years at Hogwarts. The 'crazy music', as George called it, had continued, with the twins asking Mark to perform more and more weird pieces.

Neville had initially felt out of place; after all, he didn't have much to contribute to the conversation. Yet, the three of them had still treated him as an equal, and after a while, he had even cracked a few jokes.

"— well, I need to get going now. Nice meeting all of you." Neville realised that he had zoned out on Hermione and gave another awkward smile to the girl. He watched her get up and give the twins a disapproving look before walking out of the compartment with the same gusto with which she had entered.

Once the door slid shut, a silence lingered for a few moments. Then Mark spoke.

"Well, that was interesting."

Another silence followed before Neville chuckled. Then Fred gave a snort and broke out laughing. George soon followed. Mark gave an amused chuckle before joining in, and the sheer absurdity of the laugh caused Neville to succumb too.

Before boarding the Express, Neville had a wondered whether he would be able to make new friends at Hogwarts. He didn't have to worry about it now.

* * *

Ron watched as the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade station. He had just finished changing into Bill's old school robes. They were a bit short for him, not fully covering his sneakers as they should. Not that he had much choice in the matter; these were the only ones close to his size. He looked at his new friend Harry Potter, dressed in brand new robes which fit him perfectly.

_Harry Potter_.

Ron still couldn't fully believe that he'd met the boy-who-lived, let alone shared the whole train ride as friends. The more he thought about it the more absurd it seemed. A scrawny kid dressed in shabby, ill-fitting clothes, and a pair of round spectacles—which were a bit smaller and being held together by tape—sitting on his nose. No one would've guessed he was _the Harry Potter_ if not for the famous lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

He wasn't at all like Ron had expected him to be. Being famous and all, he had expected Potter to be an arrogant kid—much like Draco Malfoy. But he was quiet, unassuming and friendly. More importantly, he was loyal as well—to someone he had barely met an hour ago.

Both of them had been in the compartment when Draco Malfoy had swaggered in, his stupid thugs behind him. After insulting Ron and his family, the ponce had offered his hand in friendship to Harry. For a moment, Ron thought Harry would take it; after all, why would he want to be friends with stupid Ron Weasley, with his stupid hand-me-downs and stupid corned beef sandwiches.

But he had refused. Not only that, he had outright stood up for Ron, citing he was the reason that Harry was refusing Draco's friendship. At that moment, launching himself to fight Malfoy and his thugs, Ron knew that Harry was going to be a great friend to him. Now, Ron hoped he would be able to match it.

Looking once more at his hand-me-down robes, Ron silently chided himself. At least his clothes were somewhat his size. Harry's muggle clothes had been at least three sizes too large for him.

At first, Ron had thought that it was some sort of strange muggle fashion. But from what Harry told him, it was clear that the so-called great Harry Potter hadn't, in fact, lived a great and comfortable life as people believed. He too had to do his chores—Ron was sure that Harry had to do more than him—and content himself with his cousin's hand me downs. The most incredible fact was that Harry Potter hadn't known that he was a wizard until he was eleven years old—had had no idea that he was the Boy-Who-Lived.

As he fiddled with his robe impatiently, Ron saw the bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger, she had called herself—walk past their compartment. He remembered her earlier visit, bombarding him and Harry with a slew of questions that they had both been overwhelmed by.

Even though he had made light fun of it, it had hurt hard. A girl his age, who hadn't known that she was a witch until a month ago, was now clearly much more knowledgeable about magic than him.

Was he really ready for this? Ron was now more nervous about Hogwarts than he'd ever been before; all his doubts had decided to flood in together.

Could he live up to Bill's genius? Or Charlie's skills? Even though he was annoying, Percy had a discipline that Ron could only dream of matching. Fred and George were literal geniuses, not to mention the huge reserve of confidence and nerve they carried around like a sack of galleons.

Before his thoughts could encroach upon himself, a voice echoed through the train.

**"We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."**

Ron looked at Harry, who was tending to his beautiful snowy owl, Hedwig. Ron found himself absently patting his pocket, where his useless pet rat Scabbers was soundly napping. He had been Percy's pet before being dumped on Ron; the new prefect had gotten a new owl along with his new robes.

Shaking his reverie, Ron thought about the upcoming challenge. Would he be sorted into Gryffindor? The rest of his brothers were all Gryffindors, but then each one of them had something special. What did Ron have? Did he even belong here? What fate would Hogwarts hold for him?

* * *

AN: This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV, and the dialogue was bland, so it was rewritten.

This chapter sets up Neville, Hermione, and Ron as the remaining recurring POV characters for Book One. Onto Hogwarts next.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	8. Hoggy Warty Hogwarts

**Hoggy Warty Hogwarts**

* * *

AN: The text in **bold** is directly borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ by J.K. Rowling

* * *

1st September 1991

Harry shivered slightly as he stepped onto the platform. He wasn't sure if it was the cold air or just his nerves. Perhaps a bit of both. He looked around the platform packed with students of all sizes—their black Hogwarts robes slightly shimmering in the dim light of old gas-style lamps—shuffling around to probably find their friends. One of the lamps—which Harry guessed was actually running on magic—was bobbing slightly. It took a moment for him to realise that it wasn't one of the platform lights but a lamp being held high by the already tall Hagrid.

**"****Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" **the booming voice of Hagrid echoed all over the platform. On noticing him, he gave Harry a slight nod. **"All right there, Harry?"**

**"****C'mon, follow me—any more firs' years? Mind your step, now! Firs years follow me!"**

The first-year students began following Hagrid down a steep and narrow path. It was pitch dark; the path flanked by thick trees on either side. All the students were silent, sticking close so as to not get lost along the way.

**"****Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."**

As he turned to look up where Hagrid was pointing, Harry found himself joining all the students in their collective awe of the sight in front of them. The path had opened onto the edge of a great black lake—a high mountain on the other side. Perched atop it, a massive castle, the many windows in its towers and turrets sparkling in the starry sky.

**"****No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, **drawing Harry's attention away from the castle of Hogwarts. Harry saw the fleet of little boats that Hagrid was pointing at. Harry and Ron entered one of the boats, trying to keep their balance as the small vessel rocked underneath them. The girl from earlier—Hermione—seemed to be eager to join them. But to her obvious dismay, two rather plump boys joined them instead. Harry let out a sigh of relief as he watched her go to another boat instead; he had found her a bit too overbearing when she had visited them earlier.

"Watch out for Trevor, Nev," said one of the new boys on the boat. Harry turned to look at him. He had a dark face and hair as black as his own, though they were styled differently. If Harry had to say, it looked like a poor imitation of a rock star's haircut—something that didn't suit the boy's face very well.

The other boy, who was checking his pockets for something, had short blond hair—the style old fashioned. He retrieved something out of his left pocket, holding it tightly in his hand. Harry recognised it as a toad; it must be the boy's pet.

Harry's wandering eyes locked with gaze with the black-haired boy—he just smiled casually, giving Harry a greeting nod.

"It's pretty sick, isn't it?"

It took a moment for Harry to realise that he wasn't talking about an actually ill person but instead referring to the castle they were headed towards. Harry turned around in the boat to take another look at it.

"Yes. It is," said Harry, his eyes taking in the glimmering lights in the castle that were being reflected in the dark water of the lake. Before Harry could add anything else, Hagrid's voice boomed again.

**"****Everyone in? Right then—FORWARD!"**

**The boats started moving at once, gliding across the lake, which seemed smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer to the cliff on which it stood. **

As they silently approached the castle, Harry felt a weird sensation build up inside him. He remembered getting a similar feeling when he had entered Ollivander's at Diagon Alley—only this time it was much more potent.

"I'm Ron. Ron Weasley," said Ron, drawing Harry's attention back inside the boat. Ron and the two other boys were making introductions. The blond boy with the toad went next.

"I'm Neville Longbottom."

"Mark Smith," said the other boy, "Are you Fred and George's brother?" he asked Ron, who nodded with a slight reluctance. Harry had gotten the impression earlier that Ron wasn't fond of being recognised as someone else's brother. Harry realised that he was the only one left.

"I'm Harry Potter," he said, silently watching their reactions. The blond boy—Neville —widened his eyes in surprise as his eyes flitted towards Harry's forehead, looking for the 'famous' scar. Mark, on the other hand, showed no sign of surprise. He just stared at Harry for a few moments—his head slightly cocked, as if he were examining some rare specimen. After a long minute, he finally spoke.

"Nice to meet you."

Harry recognised it to be a measured response; the boy had wanted to say something more—ask something of him. Harry was glad. He could do with another person who _didn't_ want to know how he defeated a dark lord as an infant.

**"****Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle until they reached a kind of underground harbour, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.**

Harry and Neville clambered out first, followed by Ron and Mark. **They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door of the castle. Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on it.**

* * *

As the door swung open, Mark saw Professor McGonagall standing in emerald green robes—she looked much more in place in them than she had on their trip to Diagon Alley. The large man who had escorted them spoke to her.

"The fir's years, Professor McGonagall"

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

With a surprising strength for her frame, Professor McGonagall pulled the large and heavy door wide open. Beckoning the students to follow, she began walking with long purposeful strides. As they moved along the grand stone corridor, Mark could hear the 'aahs' and 'oohs' of the other students behind him. It wasn't that he was unimpressed by the grandeur of the castle; he had simply seen it before, back when he had _gleaned_ Professor McGonagall in Diagon Alley. Besides, he had other thoughts occupying his mind right now.

Just a few minutes ago, Mark had introduced himself to the most interesting person he had ever met—Harry Potter. Not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived—to be honest, Mark didn't understand the hero-worship of a boy who had supposedly killed a dark lord as a baby. No—the reason Mark found him interesting was that Harry Potter was the first person who Mark had found impossible to _glean._

His mind was there; Mark could always sense someone's presence around him. But when he tried to enter it, he found himself lost in obscurity—as if trying to find his way in an extremely dense fog with a visibility of mere inches. It was—_fascinating._

As they walked past a large doorway, Mark could sense the presence of hundreds of students behind it—it must be the rest of the school. Professor McGonagall just walked past it, however, leading them instead to a smaller chamber in which they all crowded.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall in a tone that immediately silenced the whispers and chatter amongst the students. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly." Her eyes roamed around the room, the students now hanging on to every word.

"But before you take your place in the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast, you will be sorted into your Houses. The House Sorting is a very important ceremony, for while you are here at Hogwarts, your House will be your family —"

Mark zoned out. He had already _gleaned_ and listened to Professor McGonagall's speech. Not surprisingly, it was the same one every year. She explained the House system, the points that they would earn and lose for their conduct, and the general instructions about following the rules and listening to prefects. Nothing odd. Nothing new.

Once she was finished, she suggested that they smarten themselves up for the ceremony. Her eyes lingered on the dark smudge on Ron's nose, a disapproving look on her face. When they met his own, Mark gave her a small grin. She acknowledged it with a slight nod, a hint of a grin on her thin lips.

"Please wait quietly," she said. "I shall return when we are ready for you."

Mark watched her leave the chamber, the whispers resuming the moment she disappeared.

"How exactly do they sort us?" he heard Harry ask Ron.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot. Something about a test—wrestling a troll or something," the redhead replied nervously. Mark groaned inwardly. Trust Fred to try and prank his brother on his first day.

"I don't think Fred was serious," said Mark. "They wouldn't test us before teaching us anything."

Ron nodded in understanding while Harry's face regained some colour. Mark reckoned he was much more nervous than he was letting on. Hermione Granger, on the other hand, began whispering about the spells she had already learned in preparation of whatever test awaited them.

Before he could say anything to calm the hyper-anxious girl, several people suddenly screamed. Mark turned to see about twenty pearly-white figures streaming in through the back wall. Ghosts.

Mark recognised them from the description in his books. He saw that the translucent floating spirits had not noticed the group of students standing below them; they were too busy arguing amongst themselves. Eventually one of them did—a bald, fat monk, straight out of a Robin Hood book.

"New students! About to be Sorted, I suppose?" he asked. Mark nodded automatically along with the rest of the students. The rather jovial monk clapped his hands.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff then! My old House, you know."

'Well,' Mark thought, 'if that was a Hufflepuff, it can't be as bad as Neville said. Even their ghost is cheery.'

Any further thoughts and conversation were cut short when Professor McGonagall entered the chamber and asked the ghosts to move along—they complied at once. She then turned to the dumbstruck students and gave instructions to form themselves into a line and follow her silently. She walked ahead—her pace even swifter than before—and led them towards a large doorway— the one that Mark had noticed before—the entrance into the Great Hall.

Once inside Mark's jaw hung open in awe. Even though he had seen it before, both in _Hogwarts: A History_ and while gleaning into Professor McGonagall's mind, the sheer scale and realism of the vast ceiling—enchanted to look like the night sky—was breath-taking.

Levitating candles illuminated the room which was occupied with four long tables where all the older students were seated. Another table at the top of the hall seated the teachers. Mark immediately recognised the Headmaster—Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—seated in a tall gold chair at the centre of the table, his long white beard glowing softly in the candlelight.

Mark attention was soon drawn back to Professor McGonagall, who had now placed a small three-legged stool in the middle of the room. Upon it sat the Sorting Hat. Even though he had been expecting it, Mark jerked back a little when the brim of the old, ragged hat ripped open like a mouth and began singing:

**_"_****_Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_**

**_But don't judge on what you see,_**

**_I'll _****_eat myself if you can find_**

**_A smarter hat than me._**

**_You can keep your bowlers black,_**

**_Your top hats sleek and tall,_**

**_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_**

**_And I can cap them all._**

**_There's nothing hidden in your head_**

**_The Sorting Hat can't see,_**

**_So try me on and I will tell you_**

**_Where you ought to be._**

**_You might belong in Gryffindor,_**

**_Where dwell the brave at heart,_**

**_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_**

**_Set Gryffindors apart;_**

**_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_**

**_Where they are just and loyal,_**

**_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_**

**_And unafraid of toil;_**

**_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_**

**_If you've a ready mind,_**

**_Where those of wit and learning,_**

**_Will always find their kind;_**

**_Or perhaps in Slytherin_**

**_You'll make your real friends,_**

**_Those cunning folk use any means_**

**_To achieve their ends._**

**_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_**

**_And don't get in a flap!_**

**_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_**

**_For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_**

Thunderous applause followed the song, and Mark joined in almost involuntarily—the only first year to do so. He couldn't help it—he would always appreciate a well-composed rhyme, no matter its source. Professor McGonagall unrolled a roll of parchment and cleared her throat, silencing the Hall full of students immediately.

**"****When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!" **she called out the first name.

The girl to whom it belonged shuffled out of the line and went to sit on the stool. The hat took a moment, before shouting out its decision in a rough, raspy voice.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

She proceeded to the table underneath the yellow and black banner—depicting a large badger, the symbol of Hufflepuff—to the cheers of her new housemates. Susan Bones was next, and she too was sorted into Hufflepuff. Terry Boot and Mandy Brocklehurst were sorted into Ravenclaw and joined their house underneath the blue and silver banner, adorned with a large bronze eagle.

Lavender Brown was next, and she became the first Gryffindor. As she walked towards the table underneath the scarlet and gold banner, which depicted a roaring lion, Mark noticed that she received the heartiest reception yet. In contrast, Millicent Bulstrode—who was sorted into Slytherin—received a largely reserved welcome. The students sitting underneath the green and silver banner were as composed as the regal serpent that was the symbol of their House.

Mark looked at the impatient faces seated at the tables and realised that the dinner was being held up by the sorting. His thoughts tapered off to food, and he wondered what would be served for dinner afterwards.

Lost in his thoughts of chips and steak, Mark realised that he missed Hermione Granger's sorting—she had joined in with the Gryffindors already. Now it was Neville's name that had been called.

Mark tried giving his new friend a reassuring pat on the back, who turned and gave him a grateful smile before walking towards the wooden stool. His nerves must have been on an edge, for he stumbled a little on the way, drawing a small round of laughter from the students.

The laughter subsided when the sorting hat, placed on Neville's head, took longer to give an answer than it had taken with anyone else before. Mark could make out that his friend—whose eyes were covered by the oversized hat—was arguing in whispers with the hat. Whatever it was about, Neville evidently lost—he stomped away in anger when the hat finally shouted "GRYFFINDOR!"

Mark watched as Neville made his way to the Gryffindor table, a set of redheaded twins enthusiastically welcoming him. Once he was seated, Neville's eyes wandered onto Mark, and he gave him a wave. Mark replied with a thumbs up; he was happy that his friend had gotten into the House he desired.

He had almost fudged up any chance of friendship with Neville earlier today on the Express. The one-time Mark had decided not to _glean_ into someone's mind before a conversation, he ended up stumbling onto the sensitive topic of Neville's parents. Thankfully, they had been able to recover the conversation and struck a friendship. It was times like that when Mark wondered how normal people managed to converse without stepping on to each other's toes.

In all, he was glad now. Aside from Neville, Mark had also managed to befriend Fred and George, two of the most energetic people he had ever met. He wondered what his Dad would think of that—his shy, introverted son managing to make three new friends before even reaching the school.

Turning his attention back, Mark witnessed the sorting of a pair of twin girls. Interestingly, Padma Patil and Parvati Patil were separated into Ravenclaw and Gryffindor respectively; Mark reckoned they must be as different in their personalities as they were identical in their appearance.

His musings were cut short when the hall broke out in loud whispers; those akin to rumours and gossip. Mark realised that the reason behind it was Harry Potter; The Boy-Who-Lived was about to be sorted.

He watched as the thin, short boy with messy hair and round glasses walked over to the stool and sat on it. The moment the hat was placed upon his head, it was as if the entire Great Hall had held its breath.

It took time. If Mark had to guess, it was about as long as it took with Neville, if not longer. Harry, who Mark noticed had been gripping the edge of the stool tightly, slumped in relief when the hat finally called out its decision— "GRYFFINDOR!"

The reception which the boy received was the loudest one yet. Even students at other tables were applauding, while the students from Gryffindor were going crazy. Fred and George were yelling, "We got Potter! We got Potter!" while they danced in a jig, and Harry seemed to shrink in all of the attention that he was receiving.

"SMITH, MARK"

Mark snapped to attention, slightly surprised that his name had been called. There must not have been anyone between him and Harry. Silently cracking his knuckles, he moved to towards the three-legged stool and the fate that awaited him. The moment the hat slipped over his eyes, a voice spoke directly inside Mark's mind.

"_Well, well, well. What do we have here? Interesting. Oh, very interesting indeed. Haven't seen one of you at Hogwarts in a long time. Why—oh yes, I see."_

Mark was getting increasingly confused. Instead of talking to him, the Hat was lost in its own crazy thoughts.

_"__My thoughts are far from madness, Mr Smith. Looking inside another's mind is a daunting task indeed, as you very well know."_

"Sorry," he whispered quickly. "I meant no disrespect. Wait, you know about —"

_"__Indeed. Your ability is a rare one, Mr Smith, even amongst the greatest of wizards."_

Mark froze. He hadn't planned on telling anyone about it.

_"__Oh, don't you worry dear boy. I'm bound to secrecy. After all, the fact that you made it here —" _the hat trailed off._ "Now, where to put you?"_

Mark relaxed. With a slight curiosity, he listened to the Hat's scrutiny of his characteristics.

_"__An excellent mind indeed, with a thirst for knowledge. Abundant creativity too. Hard working—sometimes, I see. Ambition and courage in plenty, and bravery and cunning as well. Difficult, yes. Very difficult to decide"_

Mark found this interesting. He had never really considered himself hardworking or cunning.

_"__You've seen a lot haven't you?"_

The words ran down Mark's back like a glass of ice water. Judging from the hat's tone, it had found_ those_ memories inside his mind. He wondered whether the Hat was just some clever piece of magic or if it was actually sentient.

_"__Indeed. I am sentient—at least in the sense you use that term. After all, life and death is a circle—there is no beginning."_

"I mean no offence sir," Mark tried to immediately apologise. He decided to try and placate the Hat. "Do you—Do you have a name?"

_"__Oh my. I haven't been asked that question for many years. I believe the last time was twenty years ago…" _The hat was lost momentarily in some dreamy memory before it replied to Mark's question.

_"__To answer your question, Mr Smith, I do indeed have a name, one that my maker gave me a thousand years ago—Elijah_"

"That's a nice name." Mark immediately realised how stupid that sounded. He decided to ask something else. "Do you have the same ability as me?"

_"__In a manner of speaking. You know, you may want to read more about it if you wish. The libraries at Hogwarts are quite extensive._"

"Okay. Thanks, I guess."

_"__Of course. Now the question still remains. Where do I put you?" _

"Wherever you decide."

_"__Really? You would willingly give up a chance to choose your future House?" _Elijah asked incredulously._ "This is a forked path, Mr Smith. Each one leads to vastly different destinies. You would leave that decision upon an old hat like me?"_

"I don't believe in destiny," Mark whispered. "Besides, you aren't just any old hat. You've stuck around for a thousand years, looked into what—hundred thousand minds? More? You're adequately qualified in my opinion."

_"__Well reasoned. Very well-reasoned, indeed. How about Ravenclaw? With your mind, that's where you'll be expected."_

Mark shrugged. He had meant what he said earlier.

_"__Hmm. Hufflepuff is another path; one on which you'll be likely to make friends. You certainly didn't mind that option when you talked to your friend earlier on the Express."_

"Anywhere's fine."

_"__Really? Even Slytherin? Hmm. You certainly have the required traits. But you won't be welcome there, given your parentage. Are you willing to take that path?"_

Mark thought about it. Fred and George had told him all about the prejudice Slytherin had against first-gen wizards—all things non-magical, really. But he knew that already, and his decision still stood.

"I'll manage."

A booming laugh filled his mind. Of whatever reaction Mark could have expected from Elijah, this was not one of them.

_"__You leave me no choice Mr Smith," _the sentient hat said, once it had calmed down._ "I tried everything, and you still persisted. You are a rare wizard, and I do hope to talk to you again someday. Now, let me send you to the only place where you truly belong—" _

* * *

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry joined in the applause as he watched Mark place the hat back on the stool. As he walked towards their table, the Weasley twins and Neville were applauding the loudest. The boy seemed to have made a few good friends in his House already.

Mark had taken the longest to get sorted; a little longer than both Neville and him, according to Percy Weasley. The Gryffindor prefect had been explaining the concept of a 'Hatstall' to Hermione Granger that Harry had overheard.

He now watched as "Thomas, Dean"—a boy darker than Mark and taller than Ron—was sorted into Gryffindor as well. After "Turpin Lisa" was sorted into Ravenclaw, it was his friend Ron's turn**. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the hat had shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"**

**Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next to him.**

**"****Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley pompously across Harry as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.**

Professor Dumbledore, who Harry recognised from the Chocolate Frog Card he had found on the Express earlier, stood up to address the students. He seemed to be in a genuinely happy mood, smiling as widely as his outstretched arms.

**"****Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"**

Harry was caught unaware by the eccentricities of the Headmaster. As Percy put it succinctly,** "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes."**

Any further thoughts were quelled by the appearance of the feast. Harry piled his plate with a little of everything. Not used to being allowed to have as much as he wanted, Harry was a bit hesitant at first. When he witnessed how the others were eating, he relaxed considerably.

People were taking everything and anything from the large silver serving plates. Mark was attacking his plate with manners that would have made Aunt Petunia proud, yet still managing to eat faster than everyone else around him. Except for Ron of course. Unconstrained by the shackles of table manners, his friend was simply shovelling food into his mouth as quickly as he could.

The food was all delicious, and the ghost in the ruff seemed to think so too. Harry found out that Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—or as he was more commonly known, Nearly Headless Nick—was the resident ghost of Gryffindor tower. His moniker was well earned in Harry's opinion—the man had died due to a botched beheading, leaving his head hanging from the neck by a thin strip of skin and sinew. Any normal individual would've lost their appetite at the sight; but these were hungry growing students, who just laughed at the sight while munching on a chicken leg.

As soon as they finished their food, desserts appeared. Harry reached for his favourite—treacle tart. Beside Harry, Percy and Hermione were discussing the upcoming lessons. Some of the other students started talking about their families. Seamus told about his muggle father and magical mother, while Neville talked about how his Gran had brought him up, and how they had tried forcing him to show any signs of magic during childhood, accidentally or otherwise.

Harry snorted to himself. It was ironic really, how his and Neville's positions were reversed. After all, the Dursleys had tried their damnedest to stamp _out_ his freakishness, as they had so kindly informed him on his birthday.

Glancing up to the head table, Harry saw Hagrid drinking deeply from his goblet. **Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell**—who Harry recognised from his visit to the Leaky Cauldron—**was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.**

**It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead.**

**"****Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.**

**"****What is it?" asked Percy.**

**"****N-nothing."**

**The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look — a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.**

**"****Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy.**

**"****Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to — everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape."**

**Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again.**

Once the desserts disappeared, Professor Dumbledore got up to speak again. **The hall fell silent.**

**"****Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.**

**"****First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."**

**Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.**

**"****I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.**

**"****Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.**

"And finally, I wish to inform you that that the rooms on the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor are out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a painful death."

Whispers broke out amongst the students, and Harry found himself laughing a little.

"He's joking, isn't he?" he asked Percy.

"I don't think so," said Percy, "Must be something important. They usually inform the prefects—"

"Please do not fret," Professor Dumbledore spoke again, trying to reassure the students. "There are some potentially dangerous experiments being performed there, which would not be safe for any curious souls to stumble upon." The whispers amongst the students died at that, and even Percy gave a nod.

"Now, before we retire to our beds, let us sing the school song!"

Harry watched as Professor Dumbledore drew his wand—an ornate and delicate stick, made of black wood and having small knots along its length. He gave a casual flick, making the words of the school song appear above him, written in a flowing golden ribbon.

"Everyone pick their favourite tune!" The students joined him singing,

"_Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts_"

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated to flow better. Few parts of Mark's POV from the preceding chapter were carried over here, while the dialogue between Mark and Elijah was reworked.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	9. Of Needles and Twigs

**Of Needles and Twigs**

* * *

12th September 1991

"Relax, Nev. It's going to be alright," said Mark, trying to reassure his nervous friend. "Plenty of people have never flown on a broom before they come at Hogwarts. I'm one of them too."

"Oh please," retorted Neville, barely slowing down as he walked towards the Great Hall. "I'll bet six sickles you'll be flying around fine. It's like you're naturally talented or something."

"I beg to differ —"

"Then beg," interrupted Neville.

Mark snorted. His friend had really started showing his sense of humour lately. Deciding not to back down, he tried to seem unfazed.

"As I was saying," he continued, "I'm not naturally talented. I'm shit at Herbology, and you know it." Mark started counting on his fingers but got stuck when he couldn't think of anything else. Looking at the sole digit on Mark's hand, Neville chuckled.

"Exactly," he said. "You even managed to turn your matchstick into a needle at the first attempt."

"Not so loudly," hissed Mark, "I don't want Hermione to hear that."

Neville gave him a confused look as he shook his head. Slumping onto an empty seat at the Gryffindor table, he turned sideways at Mark.

"I still don't understand why you want her to take the credit for it and gloat around."

Mark bit his tongue. It was so bloody difficult to explain his actions to other people. Especially when it was based on knowledge that was _not_ openly available. He decided to take a different approach—after all, the best lies were the ones wrapped in truth.

"Because if she finds out, she won't leave me alone. She'll keep on pestering me, wanting to know what I did differently in the class. You know how dogged she is." Mark began piling on the eggs and bacon, having remembered something.

"And to counter your earlier point," said Mark. "I'm not what one would call athletic," he finished pointing the fork in his hand towards his gut. Neville snorted and pointed towards Mark's plate.

"And you're not going to be anytime soon if you eat like that."

"Oi! Keep your evil eye of me cheese," Mark called him out, trying to imitate a pirate accent. Seeing no reaction from Neville, Mark realised that his friend had probably never seen a pirate movie before. Dejected, he turned his attention back to his plate, his joke crashing before it could take off.

As he reached for the pitcher of water—the pumpkin juice was just too sweet—the morning mail arrived, delivered by hundreds of swooping owls. A large barn owl landed near them; a brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied to its feet.

"It's from my Gran," said Neville, untying the leather strap off the regal-looking bird. Mark watched as Neville offered it a piece of bacon from his plate. "Here Harold."

"What is it?"

"It's a Remembrall," said Neville holding up a glass ball. The size of a large marble, Mark noticed that it was filled with white swirling smoke inside. Down the table, he could feel Hermione Granger's eyes rise up from the book she had been reading—_Quidditch through the Ages_—and locking onto the magical object in Neville's hand, obviously eager to learn about any new thing she could.

"The smoke's supposed to turn red if you forget something," began Neville, immediately stopping as an odd look in appeared in Mark's eyes—he had sensed someone coming up behind them. Mark watched as a pale hand tried to swipe the Remembrall off Neville's hand, missing just by a bare inch.

They both turned around to see Draco Malfoy standing behind them, flanked on either side by his loyal compatriots Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. He got a dirty look on his face—like a rat being denied his share of the thrash, ready to bare his teeth in a fight. Harry and Ron—sitting a few places away from them—shot up immediately, a tad too eager to get in a fight.

Mark couldn't exactly blame them; from what he had heard, the blond Slytherin had pretty much made enemies of them on the Express itself, insulting them and their families. Even once the classes had begun, he had taken every opportunity to goad and insult the both of them. Before a fight could begin, however, Mark saw Professor McGonagall approach the table.

"What's going on here?"

The stern voice of the Transfiguration professor had its effect; Draco paled slightly, retreating back into his usual cool façade. Ron and Harry, on the other hand, just stood their ground—the former now having a wide smirk on his face.

"Draco tried to take Neville's Remembrall, Professor," said Mark, taking a sip of water from his goblet. "He forgot to ask for permission beforehand."

"I see," said Professor McGonagall, before turning towards the three Slytherins. "Mr Malfoy, is there a reason for you to come to the Gryffindor table and inspect the belongings of your classmates?"

Mark watched Draco attempt to keep himself in check. As a first-year at Hogwarts, one quickly learned that Professor McGonagall wasn't someone to trifle with.

"No, Professor," Draco drawled with false sincerity. "I apologise for my actions. I was merely being curious." He gave the professor a curt nod, then left without a word, his bodyguards following suit. Once Professor McGonagall had left as well, Mark saw both Harry and Ron relax considerably, returning to their half-eaten breakfast. He couldn't blame them; these first few days had been quite stressful.

The classes had been certainly interesting, both in the variety of teachers and the subjects that they taught. Nothing that he hadn't expected; except for History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts—both of these were being taught by poor teachers.

At least the History classes provided him with an opportunity to take some naps—the long-dead ghost of Professor Binns who taught the class barely diverted from the textbook, which Mark had already read twice. That wasn't the case in Defence, as the nervous stuttering of the turban-wearing Professor Quirrell interrupted any attempts to doze off.

Astronomy was certainly fun, and the magical telescopes they had used in the class were surprisingly powerful. He certainly hadn't expected to be able to make out the storm patterns on Jupiter from a handheld device.

Herbology—After three classes of the subject, Mark was thankful for having met Neville. Even though Professor Sprout was a decent teacher, it just wasn't his cup of tea. Neville shined at it, however, and was quickly becoming the teachers favourite.

Transfiguration was challenging—there was much that Professor McGonagall explained in the class that wasn't mentioned at all in the pitifully thin textbook. Mark began taking notes in the class—extensive ones, his first since coming to Hogwarts—when he realised Professor McGonagall had much more on her mind that she _wasn't able to say_ along with all that she was. Mark enjoyed turning the matchstick into a needle once he picked up subtle tricks for the proper visualisation—required for efficiently performing the transfiguration—from the Professor's mind. Along with everything that Professor McGonagall hinted at during the beginning of the lecture, the magical theory that transfiguration depended on was quickly making this his favourite subject.

A close second was Charms; fundamentally, it had many similarities with Physics, especially with all the different theories and field drawings of power-draw patterns that Professor Flitwick was having them study at the beginning of the class. Obviously, the charms themselves weren't that complicated yet, but Mark could see the sheer potential of the sandbox that they would open up once he learned it. Professor Flitwick's light-hearted yet informative teaching style was just the icing on the cake.

Potions, on the other hand, had been entirely different—_interesting_. The content was a surreal mix of advanced chemistry and art class; something Mark both enjoyed and found fascinating. Professor Snape, however, was another matter entirely.

Obviously, the man was dedicated to his subject—the way he spoke of it called upon a certain amount of concentration and _intelligent_ effort from his students. His instructions were succinct, allowing more of learning opportunities than just following the standard textbooks like some off-the-shelf cookbook. It was his attitude towards the students, however, that was entirely lacking.

He was obviously biased towards his own House—Professor Snape was the Head of House for Slytherin—and he freely gave them House points while assuming a bitter reluctance when being forced to give Gryffindor any. His brooding bat-like prowling in the class made everyone wary and nervous. Neville, who had been beside Mark during the first class, had been affected so much that Mark had to physically block him from adding the porcupine quills to the potion before taking it off the heat—a mistake that would have resulted in a boil making potion instead of a boil curing one.

All this was quite tame compared to Professor Snape's attitude towards Harry. The moment they had entered the classroom, the man had taken every opportunity to make some offhanded remark about Harry—how he was some spoilt kid, the new celebrity—something that hadn't taken Mark too long to know to be untrue. Questions had been asked; difficult, nuanced questions that weren't possible to answer unless you had read the complete text. But they hadn't been directed at the class in general—only asked directly of Harry, his ignorance of the answers being taken as a sign of his arrogance and lack of talent. Obviously, Mark found this all odd—why was Professor Snape so clearly hell-bent on making Harry miserable?

His curiosity piqued, Mark had tried to _glean_ the greasy-haired potions master. But he was blocked. Not only that, but Professor Snape had somehow detected the intrusion on his mind, shifting immediately into a defensive stance and searching the class suspiciously. Mark had feigned ignorance and continued with the work he was supposed to do, yet he was still further confused. Professor Snape obviously did not have his ability, but there was something similar that he did have—something that was even different from what Harry had.

Mark needed to know more about his ability; the magical world and its inhabitants had complexities that he needed to be aware of. He decided it was time he listened to Elijah's advice and head into the library for a longer visit.

* * *

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

Malfoy laughed, turning towards his bodyguards who, ironically, resembled two dumb lumps of lard. Harry was about to step forward and give the ponce a piece of his mind when he heard an unexpected voice do it for him.

"Go bugger off somewhere else, Draco."

It was Mark. Harry was slightly surprised. His initial assessment of the boy had suggested that Mark was from a sophisticated sort of family—the kind that Malfoy himself likely belonged to. Certainly not someone who—as his Aunt Petunia would likely put it—used such 'crude language'.

Harry watched Malfoy's face turn red at Mark's comment, cold anger building up beneath the surface. The Slytherin stomped towards where the Gryffindors were standing, Crabbe and Goyle forgotten behind in anger.

"How dare you speak to me that way, you filthy Mudblood!"

Harry had never heard that word before, but it definitely didn't take him long to figure out that it was bad. Really bad. All the students gasped, scandalously covering their mouths at the utterance. Mark's face, however, showed no sign of acknowledgement.

"Is that the best you can do?" scoffed Mark, leaning coolly over the upright broom in his hand—they were all out here this afternoon for their flying lessons. "Is that the best insult you have? Clearly, you've never visited East End."

Harry could see Malfoy flare his nostrils as he fumed in anger. Not wanting to be back out, his eyes scanned their surroundings. Evidently, they found something in the grass, for Malfoy darted forward to grab it.

"Look! It's the stupid thing Longbottom's Gran sent him," said Malfoy, brandishing the Remembrall that Neville had received in his mail in the morning—the boy must have dropped it when he lost control of his broom and fell.

"Give that back, Malfoy," a cold voice spoke, and Harry realised that it had been his own.

"I don't think I will," said Malfoy, smiling nastily as he quickly mounted the broom near him. "I think I'll leave it up that tree for Longbottom to find," he taunted before taking off in the air.

Harry immediately grabbed his broom and mounted it, noticing Mark was following suit. Their eyes locked, and an unspoken agreement made between them—_Let's go get this bastard._ They both took off towards Malfoy.

As the fresh air rushed through his messy hair and blasted his face, Harry suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline surge through him. A fierce joy welled, unbridled freedom to soar, a sense of belonging—he was in his element; in his heaven. Harry zoomed towards Malfoy, the gasps and shrieks of amazement from below barely registering as he took a sharp turn to face his adversary.

"Hand it over now," Harry called out, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"

"Oh yeah?" said Malfoy, his earlier confidence slipping off his face.

"Oh yeah," said Mark, now positioned behind Malfoy. His longer black hair and solid frame made him look like a large bird eyeing its prey. "No bodyguards up here to save you, Draco," he said with a predatory smile. "Once you fall to the ground, we'll see whose blood is mud."

Malfoy must have come to the same realisation himself; unable to find another way, he played his last card.

"Catch it then, if you can!" he shouted, throwing the Remembrall high into the air.

It felt as if time slowed down. Harry's bespectacled eyes watched the glass ball slowly rise into the air as his body automatically leaned forward on the broom. His stare fixed on his target, Harry zoomed towards the point where he would intercept its trajectory, quickly gathering speed as he dived. As the ball neared, Harry stretched out his hand—the cold glass ball landed safely inside his palm as he pulled back on the broom. Harry's toes brushed the freshly-mowed grass—he realised he was barely a foot above the ground before toppling gently onto it.

"HARRY POTTER"

Harry turned towards the voice and the triumphant smile that had appeared melted away. Professor McGonagall was running towards them, her face speechless with shock.

"Never—in all my time at Hogwarts—how dare you—might have broken your neck —"

"It wasn't his fault Professor —" Parvati Patil tried to interject.

"No, the fault was mine," said Mark, silencing the girl as well as everyone else around her. Professor McGonagall turned to look at him, her expression a mix of tempered anger and surprise.

"Explain," she said, her jaw clenching slightly. Harry watched Mark hold onto his upright broom again, his face calm—unlike earlier, his demeanour was now respectful and attentive.

"I encouraged Harry to follow Draco in the air," said Mark, his tone matter-of-factly. "I apologise for that. I was provoked by an insult earlier, and thus was not thinking straight."

Harry wanted to object to this statement but found himself keeping quiet. A small fear of being expelled loomed inside of him, especially when Madam Hooch had warned them earlier to not fly without her supervision.

"And what was this insult, Mr Smith, that you found you could not handle?" asked Professor McGonagall. Mark's eyes took on a reluctant look, and Ron stepped in.

"Malfoy called Mark a—a _Mudblood_, Professor," said Ron in a hushed voice. "And he stole Neville's Remembrall, threatening to break it," he finished, pointing at the glass ball in Harry's clutched fingers.

A brief silence followed, and Harry noticed Professor McGonagall flare in anger—this time directed at Malfoy. The blond Slytherin was standing to the side, his usually impeccable robes and hair ruffled up—most likely in a fist fight with the physically stronger Mark.

"I see," Professor McGonagall finally said. "Mr Malfoy—twenty points from Slytherin and detention with Mr Filch for use of such—_foul language_," she spat out the last words. She then turned back towards them.

"Potter, Smith. Follow me," she said before walking back towards the castle. Harry quickly handed the broom in his hand to Ron and followed her, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Malfoy got his punishment back there on the field itself. Why did they have to go inside the castle? Was the punishment so bad? Was he going to be expelled?

His thoughts flying wildly as they walked, Harry glanced sideways to look at Mark. Unlike him, Mark was showing no sign of worry on his face. Harry felt a pang of guilt rise within; also unlike him, Mark had stepped up to take the blame of the incident, and would likely now be facing the harsher punishment. Maybe the sorting hat was right—maybe Harry did indeed belong in Slytherin.

As they neared the castle door, Harry saw Mark trying to adjust his robes and smarten himself up. Following suit, Harry too began to pat his ruffled robes. His hand found a thick twig stuck near his backside—one of the twigs from the old school broom he had ridden, likely broken off during his tumbled landing.

Walking up the marble staircase, they reached a classroom and stopped outside. Professor McGonagall politely interrupted the ongoing class and requested Professor Flitwick to borrow Wood—Harry momentarily thought she was asking for a cane to beat them with. As it turned out, Wood was a boy—a burly fifth-year Gryffindor.

"Follow me," Professor McGonagall said to the three of them, now heading towards an empty classroom down the hall. Once they were inside, she gestured Wood to close the door, who locked them shut.

"Harry," said Professor McGonagall, gesturing at the burly boy now standing beside her, "this is Oliver Wood, the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Wood—I've found you a Seeker."

If Harry hadn't been under such tension, he would have found the manner in which Wood's face lit-up to be quite comical—like a small dog bouncing in disbelief at being handed a large stick to play with.

"Are you serious, Professor?"

"Absolutely," Professor McGonagall smirked, a hint of pride in her voice. "He's a natural. I haven't seen anything like it. He caught that with _one_ hand," she said pointing towards the Remembrall—still clutched in Harry's hand— "after a _fifty-foot_ dive."

Fifty feet? Harry hadn't realised that he had been that high. Actually, Harry was just barely realising that he might actually not be in any trouble at all.

"Harry," said Professor McGonagall, drawing his attention back towards her. "That was your first time on a broom wasn't it?"

Unable to form any coherent words, Harry just nodded dumbly in reply. He was still trying to make sense of the implications of Professor McGonagall's words. Was she really putting him on the Quidditch Team? Ron had told him that since first-years didn't have their own brooms, they never made the team. Hell, making the team before your fourth-year itself was a big achievement. They wouldn't put him—a broom-less first-year with no experience—on the team, would they?

Harry looked at Mark, who hadn't spoken anything since they left the flying grounds. The long-haired boy—now leaning on one of the desks—was beaming at him with sincere admiration, and even gave him a thumbs up. Feeling more confident, Harry turned to look at Wood, who was now circling him and studying Harry's physique.

"He's just the right build too —" muttered Wood, his face looking like all his prayers had been answered, "— probably a Cleansweep Seven."

"You should consider setting up a reserve team this year, Wood," said Professor McGonagall, breaking the burly Gryffindor captain from his musings. Looking at Mark now, she continued, "Smith here could be a solid chaser once you train him up a bit."

Wood looked like Christmas had come early, while Mark looked like lunch was cancelled.

"Chaser?" Mark finally spluttered out, and Harry saw Professor McGonagall nod.

"I'll see what I can do Professor," said Wood his mind busy making calculations. "I can hold reserve try-outs with the regular ones. I can't promise anything—but if he's as good as you say, that shouldn't be a problem."

"I can't play Quidditch, professor," interrupted Mark, his voice holding in a slight panic.

"And why's that?" Professor McGonagall asked, her eyes narrowing over her square glasses.

"I—I'm not fi—I'm not athletic, Professor," he finally said, clearly embarrassed. Harry saw Professor McGonagall relax slightly, a shrewd expression on her face instead.

"You could be if you play," she said. "I want you to try out for the reserve team, Smith. Or I just might change my mind about punishing you."

"I'll take it," said Mark quickly, "serve detention with you or something?" Seeing the look of incredulity on Professor McGonagall's face, he reluctantly gave in. "Or not."

"Good," Professor McGonagall said, now turning back to Wood. "I shall have to see if we can bend the first-year rule. I'll have to speak with Professor Dumbledore about this. Merlin knows we need a better team this year. Severus has been gloating ever since that last match."

Harry almost jumped back in surprise when she turned towards him again, peering with a slightly threatening expression.

"I want to hear that you're training hard, Potter," she said. The _or else_ wasn't even required. Her face then softened a bit and she smiled.

"Your father would have been proud, you know. He was an excellent Quidditch player himself." She seemed as if she wanted to add something more but decided not to. Turning towards Wood, she motioned them to leave. Wood unlocked the door, and Harry quietly headed for it—his mind trying to hold on to the snippet of information about his father that he hadn't known before.

As they were about to cross the doorway, Professor McGonagall called out for Mark.

"And Mr Smith," she said, prompting Mark to turn around and look at her. "Since you have so kindly offered, you will be serving detention with me after dinner tomorrow."

"Oh, come on"

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated to flow better with the original vision of the scene.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	10. Legilimency

**Legilimency**

* * *

12th September 1991

Mark stirred awake. It was still dark. He reached for his watch on the nightstand and glanced at the time. Twelve-twenty-five, the arms glowed in the dark. He groaned and sat up. Once he got up in the night, it was almost impossible for him to fall asleep again. Looked like he would have to do with four hours of sleep tonight.

Mark reached for the book that he had been reading earlier—maybe he would doze off in the common room after a couple of hours if he was lucky. As he got up and put on his slippers, he noticed the bed beside him was empty.

'That's odd,' he thought, 'Neville was supposed to be back by now.'

Maybe Madam Pomfrey decided to keep him under observation for another night. It didn't quite make sense—Neville's broken wrist wasn't supposed to take this long to heal. Mark had visited him in the hospital wing before dinner, and Neville had been almost done by then.

An errant thought entered Mark's mind and he hurriedly checked Ron and Harry's beds. Empty. He groaned. Those idiots must have gone to that duel with Draco Malfoy.

It wasn't that Mark didn't appreciate the sentiment; he really did. If anyone needed a good dressing down, it was that arrogant little ponce—almost breaking Neville's Remembrall like that. Mark had nearly landed in a few punches himself, but then Professor McGonagall showed up and he got to his senses.

But this duel at midnight tonight—it smelt of an obvious trap. Draco had walked up to the Gryffindor table during dinner to personally challenge Harry. Before Harry could say anything, Ron had accepted the challenge on his behalf, naming himself as the second (A second was someone who took your place if you died in the duel; Mark learned that when Ron explained it to a confused Harry). Mark, knowing well that the Slytherin would likely not even show up, had tried to reason with the two of them. But Ron brought up the matter of honour; there was no way they were going to back out now and be termed cowards. Mark had hoped they would forget about the whole deal by bedtime—evidently, they didn't.

Mark cracked his neck as he descended the stone steps into the common room. He wished he was back in his room at home; he wouldn't have had to leave the comfort of his bed for any midnight reading. If he wanted to read in his bed here, he would need to use the Lumos charm—that was like trying to read with a bloody light bulb in your hand.

The common room was completely empty, to Mark's surprise. It looked like none of the older students had much homework yet. Shrugging, he slumped onto a plush armchair and opened the book in his hand—_Advanced Magical Theory_ by Osteria Offlewirth—before losing himself in its pages.

He was jerked back to reality when he heard the portrait hole—the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, guarded by the portrait of a Victorian lady that demanded a password for entrance—being thrown open. Multiple figures rushed in, the clatter of their feet and panicked panting heard clearly over the silence of the empty common room.

Mark looked up, expecting it to be just Harry and Ron; he was surprised to see Neville and a bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger? —with them. All four of them were still trembling, their faces pale in terror. Only Harry seemed to have noticed Mark's presence in the common room.

"What's up?" asked Mark, and Ron jumped back in surprise. Mark was sure that the red-haired boy had been a hair-breadth away from actually shrieking in terror. Since no one answered, he tried again. "Where were you guys? Neville?"

Hermione avoided his gaze—probably feeling embarrassed to be out after curfew. Neville, still trembling, locked eyes with Mark and mumbled guiltily.

"The forbidden third-floor corridor."

The forbidden what? Of all the answers he could have expected, this wasn't one of them. As far as Mark knew, the forbidden third-floor corridor was nowhere near the hospital wing or the trophy room—the location of the clandestine duel that Harry and Ron had gone to. He frowned, and was about to ask what exactly happened when Ron suddenly broke his silence.

"Why in the world are they keeping a thing like that locked up inside a school?!" Ron said in exasperation. "If any dog needs exercise, it's that one."

Dog? Before he could try and make sense of Ron's statement, Hermione spoke up.

"You don't use your eyes, do you?" she said, her tone condescending as usual. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

"The floor?!" Harry suggested. "You see, I wasn't exactly looking at its feet. I was too busy with its heads. If you didn't notice Hermione, there were _three of them_."

What the—? Three heads? Dog? Mark decided that he had had enough. Since no one was bothering to explain him anything, he would just get what he needed by _gleaning_ into Ron's mind.

"No, it was standing on a trapdoor," said Hermione, crossing her arms smugly. "It's _obviously_ guarding something."

"Seems to be doing its job fine then. Drove you guys away, didn't it?" Mark interrupted, now fully informed of the situation. Hermione gave him a scathing look, which he answered with an overly polite smile. Undeterred, she turned on Ron and Harry.

"I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed—or worse, _expelled_," she said before stomping her way up the girl's dormitories.

'Or worse expelled? The girl really needed to sort out her priorities,' thought Mark. Especially given that it was _she_ who decided to tag along with Harry and Ron when they were on their way to the Trophy Room. They had found Neville outside the portrait, unable to get in since Percy changed the password just before curfew. Mark hadn't known about that, as he had already been asleep by then.

"She has some nerve to say that," Ron said, breaking the silence. "You'd think we dragged her along, wouldn't you?"

"Don't mind her. She's just worried, you know. About her place here," said Mark, surprising himself with his defence of the girl. "That's just the way she deals with the worry."

Ron looked at him with incredulity, while Harry's face turned to one of recognition. Mark realised the boy must also have some of the same doubts himself.

Neville, still silent and uninvolved in the conversation, just shook his head and made for his bed. Ron followed him, while Harry kept standing in the common room. Mark saw his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, clearly thinking about something. Knowing there was no way inside _that_ mind, Mark just turned back towards his book.

The three-headed dog had certainly piqued Mark's interest. He recalled what Professor Dumbledore had said during the sorting—there were some experiments being performed in the third-floor corridor. Obviously, that what was the huge dog was guarding. Although Mark would have liked to go and observe them, he could understand the need for safety and security.

At first, he had thought that the four night-time wanderers had headed there intentionally. After gleaning Ron, he learned that while they were prowling around, the caretaker Filch had almost caught them. It was in their efforts to run away from him that they had ended up in the forbidden corridor. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Realising that he was barely reading the book in his hand, Mark looked up from it. The common room was empty once again—Harry must have also headed for bed. Mark wondered if he should try and sleep too. The thoughts from the earlier disturbance were too strong on his mind—ones of Hermione and her insecurities, of Ron and what he had seen of their adventure tonight, and of Harry and his impenetrable mind. There was no way he'd be able to concentrate on Ms Offlewirth's treatise.

He could possibly continue if he had a snack to munch on, as he had often done in the past. But this wasn't home, and there was no kitchen or fridge nearby to make himself a quick cheese sandwich. As he got up and walked back to his room, he pondered whether he should start packing some stuff at dinner to eat later at night.

* * *

24th September 1991

As Harry scribbled the date on top of the essay he had just finished, he realised that it was almost a month since he'd arrived at Hogwarts. Time had really flown by fast.

If he was being honest with himself, a small part of him still couldn't believe that there was a Hogwarts, and that he was actually here and not at Stonewall High—the public school where the Dursleys were going to enrol him this year. In any case, the sheer work that he was being piled on with here was enough indication of the reality.

There were the classes obviously, and all the homework and studying he had to do for it. Now that he was on the Quidditch team, he also had to attend the team practices and the reserve practices that Wood scheduled. If that wasn't enough, Wood had him to attend separate Seeker practices—held in secret, so as not to alert the other teams of his appointment—in order to get some additional playing experience that he was lacking. Now that Harry thought about it all, he wondered how in the blazes did he have any time left to fool around with Ron, which he did do.

Ron. Harry was glad to have made friends with the boy on the Express. He would have been lost here at Hogwarts without him, being entranced by whatever fantastical thing they encountered that day. As someone who had lived in the magical world all his life, Ron wasn't as surprised by talking paintings and ghost professors as much as Harry was. It was just when Harry thought he was now used to the magical world that something new came into the picture throwing his assumptions out the window.

As for his classes; Harry was genuinely enjoying them. A childish part of him didn't want to do any of the boring essays and homework that were required, instead wanting to spend his time studying new spells and doing actual magic. But he did understand their importance, so Harry did them.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was a subject that Harry had found interesting when he had glanced through the textbooks back at his home. He had been especially looking forward to it, even reading the entire textbook beforehand. Twice. Unfortunately, Professor Quirrell was far from a good teacher. Aside from a strong stench of garlic, the stuttering turbaned professor had not imparted him with anything new, leaving Harry utterly disappointed.

Still, Quirrell wasn't the worst professor at Hogwarts. That position was reserved for Snape. Just the mention of the man turned Harry's thoughts bitter. Snape had had it out for Harry before he had even set a foot inside the class. Even his Aunt Petunia hadn't been that bitter towards him—at least she waited long enough for him to screw up or do something odd.

If Snape's taunts and insults weren't enough, there was always Draco Malfoy and his cronies waiting just around the corner. Briefly, Harry wondered what would have happened if he had been sorted into Slytherin. Malfoy had been enemies with him before the sorting, and from the look Snape had given him during the feast, Harry assumed he had been too. Him getting sorted in Slytherin would have probably given them both a good shock. There wouldn't have been any chance of making friends, Harry knew for sure.

That was what the best part of Hogwarts was for Harry; the new friends. Of course, there was Ron—always by his side, partnering with him in all the classes and helping him accommodate to the magical world. Then there were Fred and George, and all the other players on the Quidditch team. They were all a bit protective of him, treating him like they would a younger brother. Harry knew Ron would have felt irritated by it; he already was the little brother in his family. But Harry didn't mind it. Not one bit.

His dormmates were all great guys. Seamus—with his heavy Irish accent and native slang—somehow paired well with Dean's quick wit and quirky muggle references. They generally had their dorm rolling in laughter during the evenings. Neville was generally shy, preferring to be the spectator than the centre of attention. Yet, behind his nervousness and clumsy exterior, he had a dry sense of humour and solid dependability. Harry had been really surprised by his performance at the reserve practices, especially after his fall during that flying lesson.

Mark was the one that Harry found a bit weird. Not in a bad way—he was just too confusing for Harry to properly understand. He was obviously pampered at home—the way he behaved evidenced that clearly, and Harry was well acquainted with pampered kids, having lived with Dudley all his life. Yet, he was not arrogant towards others. The incident during the flying lessons proved that very well—he was sure of himself and his abilities. Confident even. But he wasn't a bully, and clearly hated the kind.

And it wasn't as if his confidence was misplaced. Mark was clearly intelligent, and performed the best in many of the classes, seemingly with little to no effort. Although Harry knew of the late-night readings, Hermione Granger didn't; she was slowly getting more and more irritated by the competition that Mark was offering her. Particularly because of the fact that the boy wasn't interested in competing, just going about his day without giving her any thought.

Ron was the one enjoying all this the most—according to him, it was good that Granger had someone take her down a peg. Her repeated efforts to 'help' them during and outside their classes were condescending, and frankly, unwanted.

Ever since he had made onto the reserve team, Ron had been generally in great spirits. Harry knew that it had meant a lot for his friend. Back o the Express, Harry had gotten the impression that Ron was starved for attention, intimidated and overshadowed by his successful older brothers. Ever since Oliver had lavishly praised him for a suggestion about chasing strategies during one of the practices, Ron had been much more confident in himself.

Any thoughts of quidditch brought Harry's mind straight to his new broom. The moment he had laid eyes on the brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand, Harry had fallen in love with it. Sleek and shiny, a polished mahogany handle, a long tail of neat, straight twigs, and its name written in gold at the top—it was perfection personified. If the appearance hadn't been enough, the performance blew way Harry's mind. In the air, it responded to his lightest touch. Compared to the school broom he had ridden when catching Neville's Remembrall, Harry's new Nimbus was at least three times as fast. It could be more, but Harry had no way of knowing. It was fast. Really, really fast. Within minutes of flying on it, he had become one with the broom. He wasn't flying the broom; he was flying himself.

Harry glanced at the wall clock in the common room. There was still a couple of hours till curfew, and he was done with his homework already. He rolled up his essay for tomorrow and began packing up his things. Thoughts of his broom had given him an itch which only a good free-fly could cure.

* * *

13th October 1991

Mark collapsed on his bed, his muddy booted feet dangling out the edge. He was exhausted. The slow ache that travelled through his calves made him want to curse Oliver Wood and the day that madman decided to play Quidditch. He had worked them all like slaves with ten laps around the gigantic quidditch pitch along with the standard conditioning that they usually did on Saturdays. As Mark turned slightly to take a look at his roommates, an audible groan escaped his lips.

Neville was collapsed in a similar position as Mark and had already dozed off. Ron and Dean were already out of their boots and were stripping off their sweat-stained robes, talking animatedly about their practice.

"You guys look chipper," said Mark. He mentally cursed the both of them for being physically fitter than him. Ron turned to look at him, a smug smirk on his face.

"Stop whining," he said, "You're lucky that you're just on the reserve team for now. We only have practices once a week."

"Then pray I never make it to the first team."

"Tough chance there, mate. You're one of the best chasers in Gryffindor. After the girls, that is. Wood's not going to let you go that easily." Turning to share a secretive smile with Dean—who was barely holding in his laughter—he added, "In any case, you have only yourself to blame for giving McGonagall the idea."

Mark groaned audibly, while Dean just chuckled.

"Harry's still out on the pitch you know," said Dean. "And he has two more practices every week."

"I pity the fool," replied Mark in a fairly accurate imitation of Mr T. This was the last straw—Dean barely managed to land on his bed as he started laughing uncontrollably. Ron, visibly confused, looked at Mark for an explanation.

"Muggle reference," Mark said waving off Ron's concern. "Needs a half-hour of explanation that I'm too tired to provide right now."

As he began to shake off the boots from his feet, Mark's thoughts turned to the fantastical sport of Quidditch. He had to admit: as much as he hated Oliver Wood's early morning practices and sweat-milking physical conditioning, he really liked flying. A lot. At first, it wasn't that impressive—flying laps around the pitch on the basic school brooms left much to be desired. But when he tried riding one of the Cleansweep Sevens—belonging to their starting Chaser Alicia Spinnet—he'd really understood the potential freedom and speed that could be achieved on a broomstick.

The game itself was weird—to be fair, Mark found all sports slightly weird. It depended on the movements of four balls—a large football-sized red ball called Quaffle, two heavy, smaller sized black balls called Bludgers, and one walnut sized winged golden ball called the Snitch. Three large hoops stood high in the air on both sides of the pitch, each defended by that team's Keeper. The three Chasers on each team had the aim of scoring the most goals by throwing the Quaffle through the hoops, with ten points for each goal. The Bludgers were enchanted balls; their aim was to pursue and unseat as many players as they could, and the two Beaters on each team had the duty of literally smacking them away with wooden bats and allowing the Chasers and Seeker to play unhindered. The Seeker had only one goal—find and catch the Snitch, earning their team a hundred-fifty points. And to top it all, there was no time restriction for the game; it only ended when the Snitch was caught. So yes—weird.

Despite the roaring popularity of the sport in the magical community, the number of people that turned up at the reserve try-outs was pitiful. Mark reckoned that the reserve spots must not be lucrative for anyone other than the most serious players. Being forced to participate, Mark had naturally dragged Neville along—to everyone's surprise, including the boy's own, Neville managed to snag himself a spot as a reserve Beater. Ron, desperate for a position on the team, became the second reserve Beater when he lost out the Keeper spot. In his defence, the other guy—a pompous second-year called Cormac McLaggen—had his own broom.

Mark and Dean were the reserve chasers. Dean, being more athletic of the two, was much quicker on the broom. Mark, on the other hand, had the better passing and shooting skills. Still, they were nowhere as good as the starting chasers—Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet were both excellent, with Katie Bell slowly catching up to their skill. As Professor McGonagall had mentioned, he did need a bit of training up before he could play an actual game.

His mind turned to Professor McGonagall who, despite her cruel sense of humour, was quickly becoming Mark's favourite teacher. His detention had actually ended up being a one on one discussion with his professor on the underlying magical theory of transfiguration. Mark had been disappointed with the two thick books he'd borrowed from the library, and he had voiced it to her. She had suggested he check out the old issues of Transfiguration Today, a yearly magical journal on the subject.

That had been a goldmine for Mark. He found some of the answers to his questions in old issues from the 1920s, alongside issues of a now-discontinued German journal _Theorie der Magie_. Thankfully they had inbuilt translation charms for French and English, so Mark could read the articles despite not knowing the language. He had spent three days scouring through all of the issues, copying the articles which interested him using a charm he had gotten Fred and George to teach him.

One issue, in particular, had caught his eye; it was published in 1919 and written by a someone named G. T. Darnell. The reason Mark found it so peculiar was that the hypothetical equations that the author described in it were eerily similar to the electromagnetic equations given by James Clerk Maxwell—a non-magical scientist—in 1865.

No other article had made an attempt to use any mathematical formalism in any form, let alone use differential equations. The paper was apparently not that well received, as evidenced by the comments published underneath it since it had not matched with the results of any experiments that had been performed. Still, it was one that Mark found himself drawn to the most.

Of all the questions that the Hogwarts library answered, it didn't manage to answer the one about Mark and his ability. At least not completely. He scoured through all the books—all that weren't shelved in the restricted section—and it was in a book about memory charms that he found a hint.

In the section of defending one's mind, there was a mention of something called Legilimency—a skill that one used to enter another's mind, useful to ascertain exactly which memories were to be modified. Searching further, Mark had found more references to Legilimency. One said that it was the art of navigating someone's mind and needed a spell to be performed, while another insisted that all that was required was great magical power and eye-contact.

None of this properly explained Mark's ability; he certainly did not require a wand or eye-contact to read someone's mind. Rebuffed by both Harry and Professor Snape, Mark decided to try and glean into the mind of every person at Hogwarts. What he found was fascinating.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, for example, had lowered defences—something like a castle that isn't being actively guarded. On the other hand, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and weirdly, Professor Quirrell had much stronger defences—Mark was sure he couldn't get in without being noticed. Mark inferred from this that before the rumoured incident with the vampire, Quirrell must have been a really powerful and competent wizard.

None of the students had any such defences; none except Harry, who was some sort of an anomaly like Mark. That was still a mystery, unanswered by the books in the library. Perhaps there were more references in the restricted section, but Mark had no means to get in there. Not yet.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. Notable additions are a short explanation of Quidditch rules (since I'm now trying to make the story accessible for the fandom blind) and Harry's sentiments towards his friends.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	11. Trolled

**Trolled**

* * *

31st October 1991

"She's mental, that girl. No wonder she hasn't got any friends— she drives them all away!" Ron remarked to Harry, as they were exiting the Charms classroom.

Harry was about to tell Ron that she wasn't that bad when he was suddenly bumped on his shoulder by a hurrying figure. The tell-tale brown bushy hair that turned around the corner meant only one thing—Hermione had overheard Ron. A loud groan escaped Harry's mouth; one mirrored at that exact instant by Mark from behind him.

"Come on mate," said Mark. "Why did you have to be so rude?"

A slight guilty look appeared on Ron's face. He turned towards Harry.

"You think she heard me?"

"Yeah, I think she heard you," scoffed Harry.

"She's probably been hearing that all her life," added Mark, stuffing the books in his hand inside his bag. "It doesn't hurt to be nice."

Ron looked sufficiently embarrassed at this but still tried to defend himself.

"Well it doesn't hurt her to stay out of my nose, does it?" he said, "Why does she always have to show off how smart she is. You're smart too, but you don't rub it in our faces."

Mark just gave an audible sigh and walked off towards the Great Hall, silently shaking his head in disappointment. Somehow this had more effect on Ron than any words could have. Realising what he should do, Harry turned to Ron.

"I think you should apologize to her," he said. At the look of growing horror on Ron's face, he continued more firmly. "No, look—_it is_ your fault. She was just trying to be nice—just trying to help. What if it had been you trying to help her? With flying or something?"

At this Ron's face dropped. "Alright, Fine. I'll apologise to her in the next class. You're right, I was being a git."

Satisfied, Harry gave him a nod and started walking towards their next class. As much as Ron was prone to being thick at times, Harry couldn't exactly blame him in this situation. Of course, Ron had been rude, and Harry did agree to the point that Mark had made earlier. But if he was being honest, then Hermione had practically called the situation upon herself. It had only been a matter of time.

Ever since the incident with the three-headed dog, the girl had kept an annoyingly close eye on the two of them, trying to ask about their whereabouts and plans every time they stepped out of the common room. Every. Single. Time.

If that wasn't enough, she deliberately tried to pair herself with one of them—more often Ron than Harry—hovering over their attempts and giving repeated suggestions and unwanted advice. It had all culminated in today's Charms class, where they were supposed to be learning to perform the Levitation Charm.

Ron, supposedly mispronouncing his spell, was unable to get his feather to float in the air. And Hermione had not been able to help herself.

_"__You're saying it incorrectly. Its Wing-gar -ium Levi-o-sa, so make the 'gar' nice and long,"_ she said, in a voice loud and clear for the whole class to hear. Ron, sufficiently embarrassed and irritated asked her to demonstrate if she was so confident. And so, she did, with a puffed chest and triumphant smile on her face.

Ron may have been rude, but he wasn't exactly wrong.

As they entered the Transfiguration classroom, Harry was surprised to see Hermione missing. The girl was usually the earliest to arrive. Harry nudged Ron to go and sit on an empty seat—allowing Hermione to join him later so he could apologise. With a small groan, Ron grudgingly nodded and did so.

Harry tapped his fingers on his desk as he waited for Hermione to arrive. He only hoped the girl would take Ron's apology seriously and not blow him off instead. But his anxiety fell in shambles when the class almost began and Hermione failed to show up. The last person to arrive was Mark who entered the class alongside Neville, munching on a half-eaten roll—he must have made a detour to the Great Hall for a quick snack. Seeing the empty seat beside Harry, he joined him. Before Harry could think any more about the absence of the bushy-haired girl, Professor McGonagall began to speak.

"As it is Halloween today, we will attempt to transfigure these pumpkins into Jack-o-Lanterns," she said, pointing at a large pile of round orange pumpkins. "Each pair will work on one of these together, and I hope you have practised the spell for localised transformations that was taught to you _last week_."

* * *

"Are you finished, dear?" Ginny heard her mother ask from the kitchen. As her dad was busy muttering a spell to set up the Jack-o-Lanterns, she decided to reply instead.

"Almost done, Mum." Ginny's Dad gave her a quick wink as he finished his spell, and picked up the next lantern to levitate near the fireplace.

Ginny smiled. Her dad was going to great lengths to ensure that everything was extra-grand this year, decorating the house just like they did the Great Hall at Hogwarts—conjured cobwebs, hanging bats and the aforementioned floating Jack-o-Lanterns—all so that she wouldn't feel much lonely this Halloween.

It was the first time that she was the only kid at home, now that even Ron was off to Hogwarts. Her mother was insistent that she help in the kitchen—something Ginny didn't like nor was particularly good at. Her dad, therefore, had asked that she assist him with the decorations before her mother could recruit her.

"And that's done," he said, dropping his hand back to his side. Ginny watched the marvellous looking pumpkins floating in the air, the candles inside giving out an eerie glow. One of the pumpkins was carved with a specific face—a very particular cut stood above its eye, shaped in a vertical zigzag pattern. Her dad must have noticed, for he immediately turned to her, a mischievous grin on his face.

"Anyone in particular dear?"

Ginny blushed. Ever since her trip to King's Cross, she couldn't seem to forget the boy with the black hair and dreamy green eyes. Her family had always teased her about her small crush on the-boy-who-lived. Ok, big crush. Alright, massive crush—so much that when she was seven, she had imagined their wedding at the garden outside the Burrow, their home.

In her years of dreaming about Harry Potter, Ginny actually managed to forget that he was a real boy somewhere. She had failed to recognise him that day—something she wanted to hit herself in the head for—when he had shyly asked her mother for directions to get on to Platform Nine-and-a-three-quarters. When Fred told them that the boy had been Harry Potter, Ginny had wanted to get onto the train and take a look at him properly—something that was quite immature for her in hindsight. It was like she had turned seven once again in an instant.

Once they had returned home and to her usual life at the Burrow, Ginny began to slowly forget about the incident. Or she would have if not for Ron's letter home a week later, telling all about how he was no the best friends with Harry Potter. Ginny had never felt more jealous of her brother before.

"Come on now, dinner is ready," came her mother's voice, and Ginny was rescued from further embarrassment. Both father and daughter proceeded to the kitchen table, where a small, scrumptious feast awaited them.

"Ah Molly, it smells heavenly," said Ginny's dad. Her mother looked at him with amusement.

"It would have been ready sooner if I had _someone's_ help," she said, now looking pointedly at Ginny—who was trying to shrink under her gaze.

"She was helping me with the decorations," her Dad replied, in a rather strong voice—something he didn't do often. Before her mother could say anything in reply, he tried changing the subject.

"I hope the boys are enjoying their feasts at Hogwarts too." He ladled on a spoonful of gravy, and Ginny watched her mother look with a small smile of pride. Nothing made her mother happy like someone appreciating her cooking.

"I hope Ron is not following in the twin's footsteps," said her mother, her brows furrowed in worry. "Their marks last year were not something to be proud of."

Ron. As she began eating, Ginny thought about her youngest older brother. As much intelligent he was, it never really showed up in his work—simply because he didn't like to study. She was sure that even at Hogwarts he was probably spending all his free time playing Chess or Exploding Snap.

But then, the marks that they got at Hogwarts weren't really that important; they were there to just ensure a minimum qualification for the big exams and the grades that mattered—the OWLs and NEWTs. Ginny had learned about this little useful titbit when she'd overheard Charlie when he was studying for his NEWTs.

Her dad had told her about the grading system that muggle schools used and to be honest, the alphabetical scheme that they used seemed more logical to Ginny than the one the Ministry used for OWLs and NEWTs—O for outstanding, E for Exceeds Expectations, A for Acceptable, P for Poor, D for Dreadful, and T for Troll.

An errant thought entered her mind and Ginny suddenly laughed. Her mind had pictured Ron—his freckled face full of embarrassment—looking at their mother with puppy eyes as she held his OWL results, all the scores on it as Troll.

* * *

"Troll—Troll in the dungeons—thought you ought to know."

Professor Quirrell let out a soft sigh as he slumped against the high table. Harry watched him sink to the floor, clearly fainted—moments before, he had come sprinting into the Great Hall in terror and ran towards Professor Dumbledore to deliver the message.

It must not have taken as long as Harry thought, but as soon as the whispered message—heard clearly by everyone in the Great Hall—was absorbed by the students, there was an uproar. All the merriment and high spirits of the Halloween feast was rapidly replaced by growing panic and terror; something that Harry realised was even creeping into his own heart. Before the avalanche of panic could tumble any further, Harry saw Professor Dumbledore get up and raise his wand in the air to shoot out loud purple firecrackers. The effect was immediate, and the Great Hall stood in silence once more.

"Prefects," said Professor Dumbledore in a cool rumble, "you will lead your Houses back to the dormitories _immediately!_"

The chaos quickly turned into order, and Harry saw Percy take charge of the Gryffindors at once. He began to rapidly organise the first-years into a tight group before moving onto the older students. As they began moving towards Gryffindor tower, Harry wondered how a troll could get inside the castle—weren't they supposed to be huge and nasty?

"No idea, mate," said Ron when Harry voiced his question. "From what I know, they're supposed to be really stupid," he said. "Maybe Peeves let one in as a prank."

Harry found himself nodding in agreement; Peeves the Poltergeist—a non-living entity who took great pride in creating chaos all around Hogwarts—was certainly capable of something like this. Harry's thoughts were interrupted when he suddenly noticed that Ron was standing frozen, staring dead-fixed at Parvati Patil. It took a moment for Harry to realise why.

"Hermione," they both said at the same time. "She doesn't know about the troll," Ron added, with an embarrassed face.

Earlier today, they both had overheard Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown talking about Hermione. Upset at Ron's words, the girl had been crying in the girl's bathroom all day. When she didn't show up for the feast, Ron had felt really guilty—he hadn't meant it to be this serious.

"Come on," said Harry, "let's go then."

The two of them ducked down and started moving in the opposite direction, mixing in a crowd of Hufflepuffs instead. After a while they ducked out again, this time slipping into a deserted corridor. As the coast was clear, the began to hurry down the corridor, making their way towards where they knew the girl's bathroom was. As they turned around the corner, they heard a clatter of quick footsteps behind them; Ron quickly pulled Harry behind a nearby stone statue.

"Percy!" he hissed, and Harry cursed inwardly. He didn't think the prefect would spot their absence so soon.

As the figure that had been following them came into their view, Harry saw that it wasn't actually Percy. It was Snape, gliding swiftly over the stone floor as he hurried off to somewhere, disappearing around the corner within moments.

"Where—" Harry whispered, "Why isn't he down in the dungeons with the other professors?"

"Should we follow?"

Harry looked at Ron for a moment before he nodded. Snape always seemed to act suspicious, and Harry did not like it. Clearly, he was up to something right now. They followed the potions professor, creeping along the corridor to avoid being detected. They noticed him walk towards a staircase; instead of going down towards the dungeon, Snape went up.

"He's headed for the third floor," Harry whispered. Ron, however, wasn't paying attention.

"Do you smell that?" asked Ron. Confused Harry sniffed a bit, trying to find out what Ron was talking about. Within moments, a foul stench entered his nostrils—that of rotten dirty laundry. Before he could say anything to Ron, Harry heard a low grunting noise rumble through the corridor, followed by the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet.

Ron's face registered shock, and he pointed towards the end of the passage. It was unnecessary, for Harry was already staring at the twelve-foot tall troll, currently illuminated by a patch of moonlight shining through the tall castle window.

It had a lumpy body covered with dull, grey skin, standing on thick short legs with flat horned feet—a small bald head shaped like a coconut on top. Its arms were freakishly long—one of which was dragging a huge wooden club along the cold stone floor. Harry had never seen a troll before, neither had he ever imagined something looking like this. Yet, somehow, if he had to ask himself how a troll would look like, he would probably have described something just like this.

All of these thoughts were burning clearly in Harry's mind—a mind that hadn't yet absorbed the fact that the troll was here and not in the dungeons as they had thought. By the time he did, the troll shuffled inside a room on the right.

"Ron," said Harry, pulling both him and his friend out of their stupor. "Do you think that door will hold?" Ron looked at where Harry was pointing—the door had a key in the lock.

"Good idea," replied Ron, swallowing the lump in his throat. They began edging towards the doorway, creeping even slower than they had before. Harry silently prayed, hoping dearly that the troll would not come out of it. After what seemed like an eternity, they finally reached it—Harry leapt swiftly to grab the key, slamming the door shut. The key was turned, the room locked, and they both pumped their fists in the air.

"Yes!"

Grinning wildly, the two of them began running up the corridor. Harry hoped that Snape hadn't gone too far along; he wanted to see exactly where the man was headed at a time like this. But before they could even cross half the length of the corridor, a high petrified scream entered Harry's ears. It was coming from inside the locked room, and it belonged to a girl.

"_Aaaaaaaaah_"

He turned to look at Ron, whose face was mirroring his own growing realisation.

"Harry," asked Ron. "Please tell me that wasn't the girl's bathroom that we locked."

"That was the girl's bathroom."

"Harry," asked Ron, his face pleading Harry to say anything else, "please tell me we didn't lock the troll in with Hermione."

"We locked the troll in with Hermione."

They immediately ran back to the door, opened it and rushed inside. Hermione was inside, shrinking against the wall opposite. Her face was pale and gripped with shock, her body trembling with fear. The troll advancing on her slowly, its club knocking off all the sinks and taps from the walls.

"Distract," said Harry, slightly surprising himself with the clarity of his mind. "We need to distract it." Harry bent and picked up a fallen tap—surprisingly heavy—and flung it hard against a wall.

The resulting clatter was rather loud, and the troll stopped moving. It lumbered around in confusion, trying to find the source of the sudden noise. Finally, it noticed Harry, standing harmlessly near the doorway. It gave a grunt in anger before starting to move towards its new target, lifting the club to strike.

"Oi pea brain!"

Harry and the troll both turned—Hermione might also have turned, but Harry was preoccupied and probably didn't notice—towards the source of the call. Somehow, unnoticed by Harry, Ron had snuck over to the other side of the bathroom. He waved around a thick metal pipe before throwing it straight at the troll. The troll—with its massive twelve-feet high body—didn't seem to register the piece of plumbing attacking its person. It did, however, register Ron's yell and adjusted its target once again.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry ran around the troll and started pulling Hermione towards the door. But Hermione was in even more shock now, refusing to budge from her place.

"Come on," Harry beckoned, but she didn't listen. Instead, she was watching something behind Harry. Harry turned just in time to see the troll give a primal roar before charging at Ron.

Shit. As Harry saw the troll corner Ron, he did the first thing that came to his mind—taking a great running leap, he jumped onto the back of the troll, managing to fasten his hands around its head.

Hurry realised he still had his wand in his hand—he used the opportunity to jab it straight into one of the troll's huge nostrils. Sufficiently injured, the troll gave a loud cry. It twisted around in pain, its arm flailing the club it held—Harry hanged on to dear life and hoped the troll wouldn't hit him or rip him off.

All of this was probably too much for Hermione to handle—she gave another shriek and sunk down to the floor in fright. Ron pulled out his wand and was struck with sudden inspiration.

_"__Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa!" _

He had pronounced the spell correctly, and magic obeyed. The club that was in the troll's hand flew into the air. Ron aimed it just over its head, then let it fall—it dropped with a sickening crack onto the troll's head.

As the troll slowly began to sway, Harry realised its imminent fall and gave it a slight nudge forward—after removing the wand in its nose, of course. The troll fell flat on its face, its sheer momentum making the floor tremble.

The stunned silence that followed was broken after a few minutes when Hermione managed to find her voice again.

"Is it—is it dead?"

"I don't think so," said Harry. "Just knocked out, I reckon." Looking at the wand in his hand, he began wiping it on the troll's trousers.

Before anything else could be said, loud footsteps neared. Professor McGonagall came bursting into the room, her wand brandished in her hand, followed closely by Snape and then Quirrell. Quirrell became queasy at the sight of the troll and settled down on a nearby toilet. Snape bent over to check the troll.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall in a furious voice. "It's sheer luck you aren't dead. Why are you not in your dormitories?"

Snape was looking calculatedly at first Harry, then Ron. Hermione suddenly spoke, so far unnoticed by the teachers.

"Please professor, they came looking for me." Hermione had managed to stand up by now, though she was still trembling a little.

"I—I went looking for the troll because I—I thought I could deal with them on my own—since—since I had read all about them, you see."

Ron looked gobsmacked, and Harry agreed with the reaction. _Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a teacher?_

"If they had not found me, I —" she continued, a shiver passing through her. "Harry and Ron tried to distract it at first. They—It didn't work. So, Harry stuck his wand up its nose, and Ron managed to knock it out with its own club. It was about to finish me, professor. If they had waited to find someone —" she left her sentence hanging.

Harry and Ron tried to act as if all this _wasn't_ news to them. Professor McGonagall looked at them for a moment, before turning back to Hermione.

"Miss Granger, how in the world could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own? Fifteen points will be taken from Gryffindor for this," she said, clearly disappointed. "If you're not hurt, you'd better head to Gryffindor Tower. Students are finishing the feasts in their Houses."

Nodding with her head down in shame, Hermione left without a word. Professor McGonagall then turned to the boys.

"Not many first-years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll," she said. "You each win Gryffindor fifteen points. _For sheer dumb luck._" She then motioned them to leave as well.

They walked back to Gryffindor tower in silence. As they neared the entrance, Ron spoke out.

"It was good of her to get us out of trouble like that." Harry nodded. Ron continued, "Though we should have gotten more than thirty points. Fifteen once you take off Hermione's."

Harry snorted. Trust Ron to complain about that. Now outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, they spoke the password—"Pig Snout"—and entered.

The students were busy talking and eating the food that had been sent up for them, barely noticing their entrance. Hermione, however, was standing near the door, clearly waiting for them. The three of them just stood in embarrassed silence, unsure of what to say. Finally, still avoiding each other' eyes, they somehow managed to speak at the exact same time.

"Thanks."

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. There were some inconsistencies in Ginny's POV, and the dialogue was improved throughout.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	12. The Start of Something New

**The Start of Something New**

* * *

8th November 1991

"_Communication Breakdown,_

_It's always the same_

_I'm having a nervous breakdown_

_Drive me insane!_"

Neville rocked his head to the song as Mark shredded on his guitar. It would have been better if Mark wasn't singing in a terrible off-key voice; then again, the upturned cauldron that Neville was banging with a stirring spoon wasn't exactly a proper set of drums. It was doing its job—to provide a beat for Mark to play along, and allowing Neville to experience a freedom that he hadn't been able to experience before.

Growing up under the watchful eye of his Gran, Neville hadn't exactly had an opportunity to let loose.

Even when he had tried learning the piano at his Gran's insistence, there was the shadow of his father looming above him. Of how Frank Longbottom was a natural at it. Of how Frank Longbottom was the pinnacle of dignity and grace during his performances—as well as everything else. Of course, Neville hadn't been able to keep up—his clumsy fingers and apparent resistance to learning a delicate craft like playing the piano had crashed any dreams that his Gran had of him succeeding his father's legacy.

No, growing up as he had, Neville had only managed to find his freedom amongst the plants. It was there that he was left alone; to explore what _he_ wanted to explore. To make mistakes without anyone looking over his shoulder, and be able to learn from them as per his will. To feel free.

It wasn't until he met Mark and Fred and George that Neville came to the realisation that he hadn't really experienced freedom. If the time he spent in his greenhouse was akin to roaming free on the mountainside, spending time with his friends was like jumping off from a cliff into a lake. That was what he had been missing—pure adrenaline. Even now, banging away with abandon on the cauldron in front of him was just that—full of adrenaline.

"Hey Gred, what's taking you so long …"

Neville looked up at the interruption to see Fred standing gobsmacked at the door of their dormitory. George was standing just behind him, with a similarly awe-filled expression on his identical face. Their presence disturbed Neville's rhythm, and Mark—who had been jumping on his bed while holding his guitar—stopped to look at once. Following Neville's gaze, he too noticed the twins in the doorway.

"Hey mate," asked Mark, swiping off the sweat on his forehead. "What's up?"

"That was amazing," George said in an awe-filled whisper. Fred nodded his head in agreement.

"Right in one Forge. Bloody brilliant," said Fred. Neville saw that his eyes were twinkling—obviously thinking of something. As if struck by lightning, Fred turned back towards his twin.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Depends," answered George. "Are _you_ thinking what I'm thinking?"

Neville watched in fascination as the twins managed to hold a silent conversation by their facial gestures alone.

"Cool," said George, finally breaking the silence. He offered a fist bump to Fred, who promptly replied before turning to face Mark.

"We want you to teach us," said Fred.

"Come again?" asked Mark, obviously confused.

"We," repeated Fred, pointing to himself and George, before pointing to Mark, "want you to teach us." Pointing towards Mark's guitar, he added, "to play like that."

Neville found a thrill of adrenaline spike within him at the very thought. Learn how to actually play?

"Very funny guys," said Mark, looking away shyly. He must have thought the twins were pulling his leg.

"Oh, we're completely serious," said Fred.

"One hundred per cent," said George.

"Count me in," Neville said immediately. He wasn't going to be left out of this. Not in a million years.

"Come on, guys," said Mark, embarrassed. "I'm—I'm not that good." An explosion of surprise followed his statement—one that Neville found himself joining in wholeheartedly.

"What!" "Are you kidding!" "Look who's talking!"

"Okay, okay," Mark called out, "calm down."

The three of them quietened themselves grudgingly; a moment later, however, Fred broke the silence

"Don't you dare say you're not good," he said, pointing towards the guitar in Mark's hand. "Especially after what you were just doing!"

"All I meant," said Mark, "was that I'm probably not qualified to teach."

"Hey, you know more than us. That's qualification enough," Neville chipped in. George agreed.

"As long as you can make us play anything that's not noise, it's a win."

"Okay," said Mark, climbing down from the bed. "Okay, then." He paced around a bit, obviously thinking about something. If Neville had to take a guess, his friend was already trying to work out the logistics and arrangements and all sorts of problems that they would and could likely face. Neville admired that in him; that he could quickly go from an embarrassed mess to a well-organized professional stance.

"Do you all want to learn the guitar or —" Mark turned towards them. Neville looked towards the twins; they seemed to be of the same opinion as him.

"It's better if we play together as a band, I think," answered George.

"Dibs on Drums," Fred added immediately.

"That's not fair," said Neville. He wanted to play the drums.

"We can decide that later," Mark interrupted. "First we will need drums. We don't have any."

"We can transfigure them. Old cauldrons will do nicely," George suggested.

"Okay." Mark sat down on his bed, his hand combing through his long hair. "We can't practice here, or in your dorms. The others will kick us out of the tower"

"There are some abandoned classrooms on the fifth floor," said Fred, leaning on Harry's bed. "We can use those."

"They're sufficiently isolated as well," George added. "We won't be disturbing anyone with any noise that we make."

Neville was surprised by the seemingly pre-prepared answers that the twins were supplying. Evidently, Mark was as well.

"You guys are really serious about this," he observed.

"Of course," said George.

"Alright then. One last thing. Are you sure about this?" Mark asked in a serious tone. Taking a deep breath, Neville decided to answer.

"Yes."

"Good," said Mark. "Because you three will be convincing Professor McGonagall to give us permission to practice."

* * *

"Did you get it?"

Harry jerked up to see Ron looking at him with an expectant expression. Lost in his thoughts, Harry hadn't realised that he had already made his way back to the common room. Ron must have sensed the confusion on his face as well.

"What's the matter?" asked Ron, catapulting Harry back to the conversation he had witnessed just a few minutes before.

Given his nervousness for the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin, Hermione had suggested Harry borrow a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ for some 'light reading.' Deciding to take her advice, Harry checked the book out a few days ago and had begun to give it a read. He was glad that he did; the book had a lot of tips and useful tidbits of information scattered throughout the generally fascinating history of the sport.

It had been earlier today when the three of them had been relaxing outside. Trying to catch some of the warmth of the scarce winter sun, Harry had been engrossed in reading the book when the unwanted shadow of Snape loomed past. Unable to bear seeing happy Gryffindors, he had confiscated Harry's book under a likely made-up rule about not taking Library books outside castle premises.

Deciding to get his book back from the potions professor, Harry had gone to the staffroom when he had stumbled onto a horrible sight.

Only Snape and Filch were inside, with Snape holding his robes above his knees, exposing a bloody and mangled leg. Filch was handing the potions master bandages—from the looks of it they were changing the dressing of the wound.

If the sight wasn't enough, it was what he had overheard that had Harry rooted to the spot outside the door.

"Blasted thing," said Snape. "How is one supposed to watch out for all three heads at once?"

Harry had tried to leave then, but Snape noticed. After weakly asking for his book, Harry ran back to the common room before an enraged Snape could take off any house points from Gryffindor. After thinking about what he had just witnessed, Harry could come to only one conclusion—that Snape had tried to get past whatever thing that the three-headed dog was guarding on the third floor.

"No—he wouldn't!" Hermione exclaimed when Harry tried to tell his friends of his suspicions.

On their trip to Diagon Alley, Hagrid had retrieved some mysterious grubby looking package from a high-security vault in Gringotts—on Professor Dumbledore's orders. The three-headed dog on the third floor was guarding something. It made sense that these two were the same thing—the thing that Snape had tried to steal at Halloween. Harry and Ron had both seen the potions master make his way to the third floor instead of the dungeons that day; in fact, Harry was willing to bet his broomstick that Snape had probably even let the troll in himself as a perfect distraction. It all made perfect sense.

Ron was quick to share Harry's opinion, but unfortunately, Hermione was not as receptive.

"Look, Harry. I know he's not a nice person —" she began, only to be interrupted by a loud snort from Ron. Giving him a pointed look, she continued unfazed. "—but he wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."

"Hermione, it's like you believe all the teachers are saints or something," Ron retorted. "Harry's right. I wouldn't put anything past Snape." Scrunching his eyebrows, he looked at Harry. "But what is he after? What is that dog guarding?"

Harry just shrugged. The same question had been eating at him ever since he returned from the staffroom. What was so valuable that Snape would risk going against Dumbledore? Gold? Jewels?

He was still occupied with these thoughts when he retired to his dorm that night. When he entered the room, he noticed Mark and Neville talking in hushed tones. On Mark's bed were two guitars—only, one of them looked odd, with a longer neck and just four strings. He had never seen this one before.

"What's that one?" Harry asked, pointing to the unfamiliar instrument. "Never seen that before. Is it new?" Mark turned to look at where Harry was pointing.

"That's a bass. You use it to play lower frequencies—deeper sound," said Mark. "It isn't new actually—never had a reason for taking it out of the bag until now. It was my dad's—he used to play on it when he was younger."

Though the answer satisfied Harry's curiosity, it felt like a punch to the gut. His face fell, and Mark noticed.

"You alright mate?" asked Mark, worry etched on his face. Neville had a similar look on his face.

"Yeah, I'm fine," lied Harry, trying to fake a smile. He quickly turned around and changed into his pyjamas. It was only after he rested his head on his pillow and drawn his blanket closer to himself that Harry finally let his emotions flow. The tears trickled off his face as he silently sobbed, the suppressed thoughts of his parents surfaced themselves.

He had never even thought about any of his father's old belongings, let alone see any. Ever since his birthday, Harry had been so happy with everything that he had gained that he hadn't had any chance to think of what he'd lost. He was a wizard, yes. But he was still an orphan. His parents weren't anything like what the Dursley's had told him all his life. But they were still dead. They had left him enough money to do his schooling, but he had nothing to remember them by. Mark said he didn't really have any reason to get the guitar out of the bag until today; if Harry was in his place, he would have taken it out every day.

As he sniffed away his tears, Harry tried thinking about something else. His mind wandered to the Quidditch match tomorrow. He wasn't feeling confident at all—what if ended up making a fool of himself? He had no experience in a real match, and now he would be facing off against Slytherin, who had won the Quidditch Cup for the past three years in a row. They would probably laugh at him for even attempting to play. He was not a real Quidditch player; not like his father had been.

After Professor McGonagall had told him about his father, Harry had gone to the trophy room to check. Indeed, James Potter had been a chaser in the Gryffindor team, even being the captain since his fifth year. If that wasn't enough, Gryffindor had won the Quidditch cup four times while he played—three under his captainship. Harry could never hope to live up to that.

* * *

9th November 1991

"Ok, men," Oliver Wood said, facing his team in the locker room.

"And women," interrupted Angelina. Mark chuckled along with the rest of the team as he fastened the belt on his scarlet Quidditch robe.

"Yes, and women," Oliver agreed. "This is the big one. This is Slytherin."

"The one we've all been waiting for," chimed in the twins. Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Alicia leaned in to explain.

"They know Oliver's speech by heart," she whispered. "He's made the same one for the past two years."

"Shut it you two," snapped Oliver. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "This is by far the best team assembled in years. We," he said, glaring at the team. "Are going to win."

The rest of the team nodded nervously in response. Mark couldn't help but credit Wood for his leadership and intimidation skills.

"All right then," said Oliver, clapping Harry's back. "Good luck." Wood then turned to the reserves. "Longbottom, Weasley," he began, and was interrupted by two "Yes" from Fred and George.

"No, not you two," he clarified, shooing them out of the locker room. Turning to Ron and Neville, he continued. "Slytherins will be focusing on the Seekers and Chasers, so both of you can head to the stands." Mark watched as they gave reluctant nods before exiting the locker room.

Though Oliver gave them a plausible reason, it wasn't exactly unexpected. None of the reserves were actually ready to substitute anyone in the game. The only reason Mark and Dean weren't sent out too was that there was a higher chance of a chaser getting injured, and that there were two other players to carry the game in case that happened.

In all honesty, Mark wasn't sure to be happy or not; on one hand, there was a minuscule chance that he might get a chance to play—something he probably wouldn't have enjoyed a few weeks ago. On the other hand, if he did get to substitute one of the players, there was the looming fear of actually having to carry the hopes and tensions of the entire Gryffindor House. Another thing the past few weeks had taught Mark—people took Quidditch way more seriously than he had ever imagined.

Steeling himself for whatever the match might bring, Mark picked up the broom issued to him—an old Cleansweep 3, the fastest broom in the school broom shed—and walked out into the field. He made his way towards the bench with the other reserves, while the starting team gathered around Oliver in the middle of the pitch. Madam Hooch was refereeing today, and she kicked off the match with a loud whistle blast. The match had begun.

Mark saw the team take off, and the Quaffle being passed by Angelina. Alicia caught it with a low swoop and passed it again after a few moments. Mark tried his best to keep a track of the red ball streaking across the field, his gaze only seconds ahead of the wonderful commentary by Lee Jordan.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelia Johnson—what an excellent chaser, rather attractive, too —"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor."

Mark snorted. Trust Lee to say something like that when Professor McGonagall was sitting beside him. Keeping his attention fixed on the Quaffle, Mark watched as the red ball moved in a complicated path before ending up back in Angelina's hand before she feigned and scored.

A hearty cheer ran through the Gryffindor stands, one that Mark joined in heartily. It had been one spectacular play, and he hoped he could pull it off someday. The game continued uninterrupted, and Mark tried studying the passes between Alicia and Katie as the manoeuvred through the Slytherin defences. His mind was working in overdrive; trying to track the Quaffle, the Gryffindor Chasers, and the Slytherin Chasers all at once, while at the same time making mental notes and hypothesis for whatever plays the two teams were employing.

A few minutes later, however, his attention was drawn away by something; he suddenly realised that the crowd had gone silent. The Snitch had been spotted. Mark's eyes were then immediately drawn towards Harry, who was speeding on his Nimbus towards the Slytherin Chasers, who had all momentarily stopped playing to watch the Seekers.

'Idiots,' thought Mark. Given that the players were distracted by the Snitch, it was actually the perfect time to try and score, or at least do something productive rather than float around like dumb ducks. It looked like the Slytherin Captain Flint was struck by the same idea, for he zoomed straight at Harry and slammed into him. The impact through Harry completely off course, and Mark watched as the scrawny boy tried to get his spinning broom back under control. The Gryffindors obviously called for foul, which Madam Hooch promptly awarded; yet the damage was done. Flint had succeeded in foiling Harry, who had now lost track of the Snitch.

This is what Oliver must have referred to when he had told them that the Slytherins 'play dirty.' Try and win at all costs, even if it meant potentially injuring the players on the other side. Still, the whole thing had a silver lining. The foul had awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot which Alicia scored with superb speed and accuracy. Mark tried and studied her fly-up with interest—shooting penalties was a skill he was particularly interested in mastering someday.

As Mark's eyes flittered towards Harry for a cursory check, he was met with an odd sight. Harry seemed to be jumping up and down on his broom, which was bucking like a rodeo bull.

'What does he think he's doing?' thought Mark as he quickly borrowed Dean's binoculars. Peering through them, he focused on Harry and found him completely alright. Whatever it was, he seemed to have missed it. Mark was about to lower the binoculars when he suddenly saw an expression of immense focus appear on Harry's face. Mark's gaze stayed only slightly ahead of Harry as the Seeker leaned on his broom and dived almost vertically towards the ground. The moment a glint of gold entered Mark's eye he gave a loud cheer—Harry immediately captured the Snitch, ending the match in favour of Gryffindor two-hundred to sixty. They had won.

* * *

"How do you know about Fluffy?" asked Hagrid.

"_Fluffy?_" Hermione exclaimed in surprise with Ron. That massive killer three-headed dog was named _Fluffy_?

Today's match against Slytherin was one of the scariest things Hermione had ever witnessed, and that was when she was sitting in the stands. She seriously had no idea how Harry even managed to stay up so high on a broom, never mind zoom around like a madman. And that was before his broom had been cursed.

Hermione and Ron had been cheering their team from the Gryffindor stand when Harry began to buck on his broom. When Hagrid mentioned that the Nimbus was too high quality to malfunction like this, Hermione settled on the next explanation—that someone was deliberately tampering with it. Quickly grabbing a pair of binoculars, she began scanning everyone in sight, and within minutes found the culprit—Professor Snape, standing still, quietly muttering something as he kept his gaze focused on Harry.

Not wanting to waste a single moment, Hermione hurried over to where Profesor Snape was and quietly used the Bluebell Flame charm on his robes, which quickly caught fire. It was enough, for when the potions master spotted his robes in flames, he stumbled around in a panic, knocking over several people around him, including the turbaned Profesor Quirrell. But most importantly, his eye contact was broken, and the jinx lifted—Harry was free to ride his broom safely again.

Once the match had finished, the three of them—after informing Harry of the fact that Professor Snape had cursed his broom—had made their way to Hagrid's hut for a cup of tea. They told their friend about today's events, and when Hagrid dismissed their accusations outright, Harry had brought up the subject of the three-headed dog and how Professor Snape had tried to get by it on the night of Halloween.

"Yeah—he's mine," said Hagrid. "I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the —"

"Yes?" said Harry eagerly, encouraging Hagrid to spill the secret.

"It's none of yer business. That's top-secret," Hagrid said in a stern voice.

"But what about Snape—"

"Rubbish. Professor Snape is a Hogwarts teacher, and Professor Dumbledore trusts 'im" Hagrid said again.

"But then why did he try to kill Harry?" cried Hermione. "I know a jinx when I see one, and Snape was not breaking eye contact!"

"I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" Hagrid snapped. "Harry's broom may have been jinxed, but it sure wasn't Snape. He wouldn't try to kill a student!" he said with confidence.

"Now you kids listen to me, all three of yeh. Don't meddle in things that don' concern yeh. You better forget that dog, an' forget wondering bout what it's guardin', for that's between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel —" he caught himself, but the cat was already out of the bag.

"Ha! So, there is a Nicolas Flamel involved, isn't there?"

* * *

"Let me get this straight," said Professor McGonagall, looking at the four of them with the most flabbergasting expression Mark had ever seen on her face. "You want my permission to officially make a racket in one of the empty classrooms?"

"To practice music, Professor," clarified Fred in his usual cheery tone. Professor McGonagall stared at them for a moment before she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"This isn't some roundabout way of setting up some elaborate prank, is it?" she asked.

"Not at all, Professor. We just want to learn to play some instruments," answered George. "After all, the pursuit of knowledge is something you can surely understand, can't you Professor?"

"And why exactly can't you do that in the Hogwarts choir, Mr Weasley?"

"Well —"

"The Hogwarts choir doesn't really involve guitars and drums, Professor," said Neville.

"It's a bit old fashioned," said George.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Fred quickly chipped in. "We just want to make the music of the times."

Mark watched in amusement as Professor McGonagall tried to process all this information. He couldn't exactly blame her scepticism; when the Weasley twins approach you with a seemingly sincere request, you can't help but be sceptical. Fred—trying to be his usual smooth self—tried to convince her another way.

"Think if the Weird Sisters could have begun playing while they were at Hogwarts, Professor," he said. "Obviously we aren't anywhere near as good —"

"We don't actually know how to play," muttered Neville, earning him a small kick on the leg.

"— But we could be …" Fred finished.

Professor McGonagall looked at the three of them with disbelief. Mark, standing behind, earned just a cursory look. Mark watched her take a deep breath before finally deciding to reply.

"Mr Longbottom, your grandmother has already written to me about her worries regarding your academic performance," said Professor McGonagall. Neville's face fell, reverting back to the nervous shell he had been in when Mark met him on the Express.

"I've assured her that your reports so far are up to the mark," continued Professor McGonagall, "but this could potentially put that in jeopardy."

Pushing her square spectacles further up her nose, she then turned towards the twins.

"As for you Mr Weasleys," she said. "You are both already a part of the Quidditch team, and you have your classes to study for. When will you find time to do this?"

George lowered his head at that, while Fred seemed to want to object. Professor McGonagall, however, didn't give him a chance.

"Your mother has already written to me that she fears for your grades. I understand that this is something you wish to pursue seriously, but as your Head of House, it —"

Mark decided to interrupt and cleared his throat.

"Yes, Mr Smith?"

"Just two words, professor. _Fewer Pranks._"

"Permission granted," came the immediate reply.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV in the first segment, which I converted to Neville's alone. Other things were also changed, like including a brief description of Hermione finding out Snape jinxing Harry's broom.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	13. A Magical Christmas

**A Magical Christmas**

* * *

23rd December 1991

Mark's breath condensed on the windowpane as he stared out at the urban landscape of London that was zooming past him. Now that the Christmas break had begun, he was eager to return home to his Dad.

That was what his mind had been occupied with since yesterday—the question of his Dad's health. They had exchanged quite a few letters over the past four months, but his Dad hadn't been exactly forthcoming about the progress of the treatments. Knowing his Dad, that could imply anything from a miraculous recovery to a sudden deterioration of his condition. And all that did was make Mark think of the worst.

Frankly, it wasn't as if he was mentally unprepared for it. On the contrary, Mark had a propensity to overthink the issue. Even now, staring out a fogged window on the Hogwarts Express, his mind performed these random thought experiments. Imagined if his Dad was dead. Imagined the things that his twelve-year-old self would have to manage. Imagined the funeral and imagined his life afterwards. And when his consciousness would finally catch on to this errant train of thought, dismissing it off unceremoniously.

Trying to avoid this predicament, Mark turned his musings to his friends. Along with him and Neville, most of the other students were headed home for the break. Fred and George, along with Percy and Ron, were staying in the castle for the break as their parents had gone to visit their older brother Charlie in Romania. Harry was also staying over for the break, and from what Mark could figure out, he wasn't that fond of the people with whom he lived. Mark hoped that Harry would appreciate the present he'd gotten him—he had been quite specific when he asked his Dad to send the package via the owl post.

Harry had been another point of contemplation that Mark found himself often pondering about. Ever since he had read about legilimency, Mark had a fair idea that Harry was some kind of Occlumens—someone who had could defend against legilimency. In his curiosity to find out more, he found himself making repeated attempts to subtly penetrate his classmate's defences. But, he couldn't. Once, he'd even made an uncontrolled attempt—accidently, of course. Even that didn't work. Whatever Harry was, he wasn't a regular Occlumens. Just like Mark, he was an anomaly—albeit of a different kind.

As the Express began to pull into the platform, Mark turned away from the window and got up. Neville—stirred awake due to the slowing train—joined him in getting their luggage out of the carriage. Once he was out on the cold platform, Mark scanned around for any sign of his Dad. Finding none, he turned back towards Neville—still a bit sleepy—and bid him goodbye. Slinging the large duffel bag over his shoulder, Mark then briskly walked out of the barrier, spotting Edwin standing near a newspaper stand immediately. The old man gave him a sly smile as Mark neared him.

"Hey kiddo," said Edwin as he lowered the newspaper in his hand. "You've grown."

"Nice to see you too," Mark said with a smirk, moving in to give Edwin a one-armed hug. As they began moving towards the car park, Mark spoke out the question on his mind.

"How is he?"

"Good," replied Edwin. As Mark gave him a sceptical look, he reaffirmed his statement. "No, I really mean it. John's doing good—he's just been a bit tired lately." As Mark put his duffel in the boot, Edwin continued, "Actually, he was planning on coming with me today. But I insisted that he take some rest. Maybe even have a welcoming party for you," he added with a quick wink.

"That's good to hear," said Mark. "The treatments —?"

"All as expected," Edwin replied as he sat in the old Ford Escort with Mark. As they pulled out of the car park—and out of earshot—Edwin began his questions.

"So, how was magic school?"

Mark rolled his eyes as he slumped back in his seat. Trust Edwin to make Hogwarts sound like a—well wherever circus magicians learned their stuff.

"Great. A bit better than I had expected," replied Mark. "And before you ask—no, they haven't taught us any card tricks. Yet."

"You've joined a sports team of some sort?" Edwin asked after chuckling. "You mentioned something in your letter. Kiddish—Quadish—?"

"Kwi-ditch," corrected Mark.

"Huh. Sounds like some kind of French bread," Edwin remarked. "So, you're on a school team?"

"Reserve team for now. The starting team is too good to consider any amateurs like us," said Mark. "Harry's the only first-year on the main team—He's the Seeker."

"Seeker is the one who catches the golden ball, right?"

"Yes. It's called a Snitch," replied Mark. "You know, I'm pretty sure you would enjoy watching it," he said after a moment.

"A game in mid-air with flying brooms and complicated rules? Sign me up for a ticket," said Edwin. "Didn't you say the game doesn't end unless the—the Snitch is caught?"

"Yes. There's no other way to end the game."

"What if no one catches it? There has to be a time limit, right?"

"Nope. No time limit," replied Mark. "I think the longest recorded game had lasted nearly three months or something. They had to sub in players every few hours."

.

.

"So, Mark, how was Hogwarts? What all did you learn?"

Mark looked up from his plate at the question, a slight smirk on his face. He'd been wondering how long his Dad would take to ask that question. And a quick glance at the wall clock revealed the answer to be twenty-seven minutes.

"It's been great," replied Mark. "The teachers are great—the classes are great. The castle—it's actually a real castle, by the way—it's also great." After taking another bite from his plate, he continued, "We haven't gotten the chance to learn a lot of spells yet. It's mostly basal theory and all the implicit etiquettes and precautions about magic—things which we may experiment with and things we are explicitly forbidden to dabble around in."

"What are all your subjects again?" asked Edwin, taking a sip of wine from his glass. Mark mirrored him with his own glass of water before replying.

"Well, there's History—interesting subject, boring teacher," said Mark. "Then there's Herbology. It's like Latin and botany and abstract art all mixed together —"

"Oof," remarked his Dad. Those were few of the things that Mark was definitely not good at.

"Exactly," said Mark. "But I have a secret weapon—my new friend Neville Longbottom. He's an utter genius in the subject. Been casually practising Herbology in his greenhouse for years."

"That's good to hear," said his Dad. "Friends is good. You mentioned a couple more—the ones you're practising with?"

"George and Fred," Mark supplied. "They're third-years. Brilliant, the two of them. Though they've convinced themselves that I can teach them music."

"Well, to be frank, you _are_ a pretty good guitar player, Mark," said Edwin. "Certainly better than whatever horrible cacophony your old man here produces with it," he added with a chuckle.

"I will not respond to that since I agree with the underlying sentiment, thank you," replied Mark's Dad. Turning to Mark he continued. "You said something about taking your Strat back?"

"Yes," Mark replied, "We need more instruments if we want to practice seriously. Drums were easy to transfigure, but guitars aren't. We asked Professor McGonagall to help us, but she just encouraged us to experiment ourselves."

"That is quite teacher-like of her," remarked Edwin. "From what you and John have told me, she sounds like an interesting woman. It's a pity I didn't get to meet her."

"Why Edwin, I didn't know you were interested in my teachers," said Mark, trying to suppress his laughter. "She's quite a bit older than you, you know."

A brief silence followed before Edwin spluttered in mock outrage.

"Why you—little rascal. Just wait until dinner is finished—you'll see"

"Why don't you tell us about your other subjects till then," interrupted Mark's Dad. Turning to Mark he gave him a quick wink and mouthed, 'Good one.'

"Well, Professor Snape taught us to make boil curing and boil causing potions," said Mark taking his Dad's cue. "Also, some basic herbicide potions. Basically, we're being taught how all the different ingredients and techniques interact." Mark took a few bites as he surreptitiously watched Edwin before continuing.

"In Charms, we learned some base theory along with the Lumos and Levitation Charms. It's actually quite interesting how the spells work, you know. We have to know the proper incantation, the correct spell movement, and the proper power draw pattern. We also need to properly visualize the effect the spell would have, and how to manipulate the power draw to alter the effects accordingly. Transfiguration is actually my favourite subject right now, you know. I think that with changing the power draw pattern I can actually —"

Unbeknownst to Mark, his Dad and Edwin shared a look. Yes, Mark was definitely enjoying Hogwarts.

* * *

25th December 1991

"What did you expect, turnips?"

Harry turned to look at Ron—who was already engrossed in his own pile of presents—before looking back at the incredible sight that lay in front of him. A small pile of colourfully wrapped presents, all with his name on them. The sight might not have been as impressive to some other kid his age. After all, it was Christmas day today—the day everyone usually received presents.

But it was different for Harry. He had not been expecting any presents because—well, because he hadn't gotten any presents for Christmas before. Not real ones anyway. Sure, Aunt Petunia had handed him a rusty coat hanger, or a flaky old leather belt that had once graced Dudley's waist. But just because they had been handed out on Christmas didn't make them any less of hand-me-downs. If he was being honest, Aunt Petunia had probably considered wrapping them up to see the look of disappointment on Harry's face before dismissing it as a waste of good paper. So, it was but natural for Harry to not expect any presents this year.

But then, this year was different, wasn't it? He wasn't at the Dursleys any more. He was a wizard, studying in the wonderful castle of Hogwarts. He had friends—real friends, who had cared enough about him to get him presents. A large pang of guilt spread through Harry's chest as he realised how much of a lousy friend _he_ had been; he hadn't gotten anything for any of his friends. It was something he had never had to consider before, not being used to having real friends. But that was no excuse; he needed to find some way to rectify the situation and show his gratitude to his newfound friends.

Deciding to head to the bathroom before looking at his presents, Harry slipped off his bed. These last few days at Hogwarts had been the best ones yet—certainly the best Christmas he had ever had. As all the other first-years had gone home for the holidays, it was only Ron and him occupying their dorms. The rest of Gryffindor tower was similarly empty; which meant that Harry and Ron could lounge around in the common room, toasting all sorts of food on the fireplace and spending their time playing Wizard's chess.

It was an interesting take on the game, to say the least. The rules were identical to chess, except for the fact that the chessmen were alive and had to be verbally ordered around the board. Being an inexperienced player, this meant that the chessmen kept shouting contradictory advice to Harry, confusing him at times. Other times—when he was confident about his move—the chessmen would refuse to follow his orders. On top of it, if a piece was captured, the attacking piece would physically knock out the other piece—often breaking it into pieces. All in all, it was a confusing and barbaric game; exactly the kind that Ron and he enjoyed playing.

Returning back to his bed, Harry turned his attention to the pile of presents. Controlling his impatience, he neatly opened the one on top. It was beautifully whittled wooden flute from Hagrid. Feeling the grain beneath his fingers, Harry raised it to his lips before blowing on it. A weird sound emerged—something in the back of his mind found it similar to Hedwig's screeches.

Feeling satisfied, Harry moved to the next thing on the pile. It was a plain envelope, one that Harry recognised as one of Aunt Petunia's cheap envelopes from the third drawer—reserved specifically for unimportant mail. Inside was a note.

_We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia._

"That's friendly," said Harry as his eyes found a fifty pence piece taped to the bottom of the note. His sudden comment must have drawn Ron's attention, for Ron quickly began to examine the piece of currency.

"This is muggle money?" he said, examining the coin. "_Weird._"

"Keep it," Harry said, stifling a laugh as Ron's face lit up. Shaking his head, he moved on to the next parcel. It was rather large and lumpy, wrapped in inexpensive yet elegant paper.

"Tha' ones from ma' mum," Ron said interrupting Harry's observation. Swallowing the chocolate frog in his mouth—probably two—he spoke again, this time more clearly. "That one's from my mum. I—I told her you weren't expecting many presents and—oh no," he groaned, "she's made you a Weasley sweater."

Harry had by now opened the parcel to reveal a thick hand-knitted sweater in emerald green wrapped around a large box of homemade fudge.

"She makes one every year for all of us," said Ron, hurriedly unwrapping a similar package from his pile, "and mine's always maroon."

"That's—that's quite nice of her," said Harry, burying the small torrent of emotions in his chest. Trying to distract himself, he opened up the fudge—it was very tasty.

Turning his attention to the next parcel, Harry found another article of clothing in it. It was a black T-shirt, with AC/DC printed on the front. Harry laughed at it since Mark had clearly chosen a band which had a lightning bolt symbol like his scar. He promised himself to get Mark something good later. Only two parcels were left now. The first was from Hermione, containing a large box of chocolate frogs. A quick glance at Ron's pile showed that she had gotten both of them identical gifts. Harry snorted as he imagined Hermione's reaction if he told her about Ron eating two chocolate frogs at once. Popping one in his mouth, Harry now looked at the last parcel.

As Harry picked it up, he found it light to the touch. Unwrapping it, something fluid and silvery slithered to the floor. Ron, who had been eating a box of candy, got a look of awe on his face.

"I've heard of those but never thought I'd see one. They're supposed to be really rare." Ron said slowly.

"What is it?" Harry asked as he picked it up.

"I think—put it on. I think it is an invisibility cloak." Confused, Harry donned the cloak and heard Ron gasp again. "I was right!" exclaimed Ron. "Look! Look below!"

Harry looked down and just as his friend had said, found himself invisible. He looked in the mirror, then pulled the hood of the cloak. He disappeared completely from view.

"Look there's a note!"

Harry turned towards the floor where Ron was pointing. The piece of parchment must have fluttered downwards when Harry unfurled the cloak. The note was written in a loopy handwriting—one that Harry had never seen before.

_Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you._

_Use it well._

_A Very Merry Christmas to you._

* * *

"Hey, champ."

Mark turned away from the window to look at his Dad standing in the doorway. His lips curled into a small smile as his Dad sat beside him on his bed. There was a moment of silence as Mark ran his fingers over the wand in his hand.

"What's on your mind?" his Dad asked finally. Mark just shook his head absently.

"Nothing," said Mark, trying to look anywhere else but his Dad. "Just—just all this. Magic. Hogwarts. Me being a wizard." He took a pause, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Just—what mum would have thought about all of this. About what I can do. All of —"

"Your mum would have been proud of you," his Dad interrupted, clapping Mark firmly on his shoulder. "She would have been proud of you, and not because of your abilities. She would have been proud of how you have grown up to be—as a person. That was the thing she wanted. For you to grow up to be a good man."

"And am I that? A good man?" Mark turned to look at his Dad, who took a deep breath before replying.

"Yes. And do you know why?" asked his Dad. "Because you ask that question."

Mark snorted slightly as he wiped off the tear in his eye. As much as he tried denying them, the thoughts of his mother threatened to invade his mind on some days. And today was one of them—after all, it was Christmas day, and twelve years ago his mother had passed away holding her infant son in her arms. It wasn't exactly Mark's favourite holiday.

Still, there was some good. He still had his Dad with him. After all, his dad had suffered from a loss much greater than his own; it wasn't as if Mark had memories of his mother to draw upon. He remembered almost nothing of her.

Over the years, the two of them had learned to live without Sarah Smith. They played together, cooked together, did the chores together. Had fun together. Even though Mark's Dad had been diagnosed with leukaemia, John had always ensured that they had some fun in their life.

Edwin had helped, becoming an honorary uncle to Mark, taking care of him when his Dad was getting his treatments. He was a sold pillar of support in their lives, an irreplaceable presence, providing love and guidance to two men who would have probably lost their way without him. It was Edwin who had taken Mark to the pool and taught him to swim; it was Edwin who had held Mark steady when he was learning to ride his bicycle.

So, it wasn't as if Mark had felt anything missing in his life—neither materialistically nor emotionally. He had—was having—a happy childhood, despite the absence of his mother. But there was an errant thought that popped in now and again. How would his life had been—how different would it all have been—if she had been alive.

This curiosity had plagued Mark, especially ever since his ability had awakened. It was partly academic, partly something else. Questions about her nature—about what his mother's reaction would have been to all of it. What she thought about it. What she would have wanted him to do with it.

He had asked Edwin about her, trying to find out more about how she was a person. Having him recount incidents about her, then gleaning him to experience them himself. Of course, the best person to do this with was his Dad, but Mark had never considered it before. It was obvious that there was a lot of pain and sorrow associated with the memories, and he didn't want his Dad to relive them. Or maybe it was just him who didn't want to experience it. He didn't think he could handle it—not until today, that is.

Mark turned back to look at his Dad, a hand slipping to the silver locket hanging by his neck—a memory of his mother. Looking his Dad in the eye, Mark spoke slowly.

"Dad, will you tell me about her?" said Mark slowly, his eyes unwavering. "About how—how she was?" After a small pause, he added in a small voice. "I think I'm ready."

Mark's dad—who had raised his eyebrows in surprise—took a deep breath as he nodded in understanding. Looking at his son, he finally spoke in a proud tone.

"Yes, son. I will."

* * *

28th December 1991

"Back again, Harry?"

Harry froze. He looked behind him slowly, only to see Professor Dumbledore sitting on one of the desks by the wall. In his hurry to find his way back to this classroom, he must have somehow missed the venerable wizard entirely.

"I didn't see you, sir" he replied timidly. Professor Dumbledore smiled gently, and Harry felt a little relief.

"Strange how near-sighted being invisible makes you," he paused before continuing. "You, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

Harry turned back to look at the large ornate mirror that had drawn him to this classroom for the past two days. It wasn't just the fact that it was clearly out of place in an abandoned classroom; it was what it had shown harry.

It all began on the night of Christmas when Harry had set out to search the restricted section of the library for any reference to a Nicholas Flamel—the name that Hagrid had inadvertently revealed to them. Thanks to the invisibility cloak that he had received, it had been quite easy to sneak in the library at night. Unfortunately, Harry hadn't anticipated any protective enchantments on the books themselves—the moment he opened one, it began screaming loudly. The sound alerted the prowling figures of Filch and Snape—who had chosen that very night to patrol the hallways. In his narrow escape from them, Harry had ended up in this classroom, stumbling upon the mirror.

It was large, almost as tall as Hagrid. The mirrored glass was stained with age, an ornate gold frame adorning it on all sides. His eyes briefly flitted to an inscription on top, written in a language he had never seen before:

_Erised stra ehru oy tube cafru oyt on wohsi._

A strange sensation drew him close to it, and when he stepped in front of it, Harry was taken aback in shock. To his surprise, the reflection wasn't of Harry alone. There were people, standing all around him. More particularly, they were his family; all of them, including his parents, holding him in a way that he wished he could remember. Once the shock wore off, Harry found himself stuck to the ground, mesmerised by the sight in front of him. It was only after the bright morning sunlight crept in through the window that Harry reluctantly left the classroom.

But he couldn't stay away from it for long. He returned the next night, this time with a sleepy and reluctant Ron. But it didn't work; at least not in the way that Harry intended. Instead of seeing Harry's family—or even his own—Ron saw something else entirely. He saw himself older, and as the Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor. He was the Head Boy, and he had won the House cup for Gryffindor—things Harry found extremely stupid to be happy about. Wanting to see his family, Harry tried pulling Ron away, only to be met with an angry friend. They had ended up nearly fighting for the right to stand in front of the mirror, only for Filch to come prowling nearby. They had left immediately.

The next day, Ron advised Harry to not go looking for the mirror, but Harry paid him no heed. He couldn't help it, and he didn't even want to. All he wanted was to stay here, in front of this mirror, with his family as long as he could. And he did—until he was caught.

"Have you realised by now what it does?" asked Professor Dumbledore and Harry tore his eyes away from the reflection to focus on the inscription.

"It—It shows me my family —"

"And it shows Mr Weasley himself as Quidditch Captain and Head Boy."

"How—"

"There are many ways to become invisible," Professor Dumbledore said gently. "Now, can you figure out what it shows us all?"

Harry shook his head, his attention still half diverted towards the image of his family.

"Let's see. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised as any other mirror." Professor Dumbledore paused. "He would be able to look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Now?"

This seemed to have sufficiently drawn Harry's attention. He pondered for a moment.

"It shows us what we want…whatever we may want…"

"Hmm. Yes. And No," said Professor Dumbledore, slowly pacing around Harry to come and stand in front of the mirror.

"It shows us the deepest, desperate desire of our heart," he said quietly, "You, who yearns to know your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who feels inadequate and overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, with all the recognition he desires."

Turning towards Harry, Professor Dumbledore spoke in a voice steeped in wisdom.

"The Mirror of Erised will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen. Some have been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or possible, forgetting to live the life that they do have."

Harry was shocked by all of this. The very idea of him wasting away in front of the mirror was shocking—but not as much as the realisation of the fact that it was entirely possible. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. This wasn't real. As much as he wished it was a true reflection, it wasn't. it was nothing but an image—an image that would be burned into his memory for the rest of his life; but an image, nonetheless. Wiping away an errant tear from his eye, Harry slowly turned to Professor Dumbledore.

"Harry, this Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow. I ask you not to go looking for it. If you ever do run across it, you will be prepared to face it."

Harry nodded. Professor Dumbledore gave him a small smile.

"I think it is time you put on that admirable cloak of yours and get off to bed"

Harry was about to leave when he stopped.

"Sir, can I ask you something?"

"You just did" Professor Dumbledore smiled. "You may ask me another question."

"What do you see sir, when you look into the mirror?"

"Me? I see myself holding a pair of thick woollen socks," he replied rather quickly.

Harry stared.

"One can never have enough socks," said Professor Dumbledore. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People insist on giving me books."

* * *

AN: This chapter was extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV's, especially in Mark's segments. Those have been corrected. On a side note, the joke about Edwin and Professor McGonagall was just that; a joke. It just felt natural for the characters conversation. That's not going to happen.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	14. Elves

**Elves**

* * *

9th February 1992

"I've found him!" Harry exclaimed, holding up the chocolate frog card in his hand. "I've found Flamel!"

A few odd looks greeted him from some of the older students in the common room, but both Ron and Hermione beamed in excitement. Ever since Hermione had returned from the Christmas Holidays and expressed her disappointment about the lack of progress in the search for the mysterious Nicolas Flamel, the three of them had spent all their free time combing through the many books in the library. But they had struck no luck; at least not until now, almost a month in the new term.

"I told you I had seen the name somewhere," Harry whispered in excitement as he sat beside Ron. "It was on Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog Card. Listen to this: '_Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel._' See?"

As Harry finished, Hermione shot up from her seat and barrelled towards the girl's dorms, much to his and Ron's surprise. She returned after a minute, huffing as she carried a large old book in her arms before she sat beside Harry and began to frantically flick through the pages.

"What exactly—"

"Sssshhh!" Hermione shushed Ron before he could speak any further, her eyes barely leaving the book in her lap. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to both Harry and Ron, she finally broke the silence.

"I knew it! I knew it!"

"Are we allowed to speak yet?" Ron asked in exasperation.

"I never thought to look in here!" Hermione continued excitedly, "I checked this out of the library a few weeks ago for a bit of light reading."

"Light?" said Ron, who promptly shut up again after the look Hermione gave him. Harry still looked at her to complete her explanation.

"And?"

"Nicolas Flamel," she whispered dramatically, "is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone!"

Two dumb looks greeted her. Harry finally broke the silence,

"The what?"

"Oh, honestly," she said with a sigh. "Look—just read this passage"

She pushed the book towards them, and they leaned over it.

_The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher's Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal._

_There have been many reports of the Philosopher's Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight)._

They finished and sat straight, digesting the new information.

"So, the Philosopher's Stone —" Harry drew out each word, but Hermione continued in her earlier excitement.

"— is the thing that Fluffy's guarding. I bet Flamel asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, because they're friends and he suspected that someone was after it."

"He must have wanted the stone moved out of Gringotts," Ron exclaimed. "And he was right, wasn't he? The vault was broken into!" Harry nodded in agreement.

"A Stone that can make you immortal and makes as much gold as you want!" he said. "No wonder Snape wants it! Anyone would!"

Hermione nodded slowly, her usual politeness towards Snape notably absent. Ron spoke in an amused tone.

"And no wonder we didn't find Flamel in the _Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry_. The bloke's not exactly recent if he's six hundred and sixty-five, is he?"

* * *

"Where exactly are you leading us?" Neville asked Fred as they shuffled along the wide stone corridors of the castle. The two of them, along with Mark and George had spent the entire morning practising music in the unused classroom—or rather their 'clubhouse', as they now preferred to call it—that Professor McGonagall had allowed them to use. As a result, they had managed to miss breakfast and were now headed to someplace the Twins claimed they could get some food.

"Where is your sense of adventure, oh young one?" asked Fred in a deep voice, barely turning to look back at Neville. "Relax. We—your elders, that is—are guiding you to the heart of Hogwarts. The kitchens."

"Kitchens?" asked Mark disbelievingly. "You guys know how to get to the kitchens?"

"Found the way in our very first year, we did," George boasted in reply as they walked down the marble staircase. Neville found his mouth slightly hanging in amazement at that statement. It was seeming as if being friends with the twins had quite a few advantages. Despite what most of the students believed, both Fred and George were actually quite talented wizards. Their grasp on the practicalities of magic was something Neville could only dream of achieving. Still, they hadn't acted condescendingly towards him when he asked them something stupid; unlike some of the other older students from Ravenclaw or even Gryffindor. Apparently, Malfoy and the other Slytherins had spread the word about his 'near-squib' status, and everyone seemed to accept it readily.

Plus, his Gran wasn't exactly helping the situation entirely. At least she was proud he was in Gryffindor. But other than that, his performance wasn't what she had been hoping for. She had shown some pleasure when he mentioned learning music again, but again, playing the drums wasn't what she had been hoping for. It seemed Neville was dead set in not doing the things she was hoping for. Neville tried to push it out of his mind as he tried focusing on the present instead.

The music practice was going better than he had expected. In a surprise to no-one, Mark was a better teacher than he had claimed he would be. It was as if he could tell what they were thinking while making a mistake—he would direct Neville precisely towards the root of the problem—usually his posture—and voila, the problem would vanish away.

The clubhouse itself was quite cosy. After a lot of cleaning—both by brooms and cleaning charms—and soundproofing—thanks to special charms that Lee Jordan, the twin's friend, taught them—the abandoned classroom had been made usable. Mark had brought in more guitars (and a xylophone) from his home, and a few burnt cauldrons were transfigured into a drumkit by the Twins and Lee. Professor McGonagall had inspected the room after their efforts in her usual intimidating demeanour and finally approved their endeavour. Neville had found himself sweating with nervousness the entire time; frankly, he didn't know how Fred or Mark could crack jokes in front of their stern professor.

Neville found himself pulled from his thoughts as the four of them reached the Hufflepuff dorms. Before he could ask what they were doing here, Fred approached a large painting on the wall. It was a picture of a large silver bowl full of fruits, its colours slightly faded out over the years. Fred reached out and touched the painting lightly, caressing it gently, and to Neville's surprise, the pear in the painting giggled before turning into a doorknob.

"Welcome to the kitchens," announced George. "To gain entry, you must tickle the pear."

Both Neville and Mark had their mouths hung open in surprise as they walked inside. The sight that greeted them was simply spectacular. The kitchens were huge. On one side, there were five tables laden with food—arranged in a layout identical to the one in the Great Hall, while the other side was filled with areas for cooking and storage. Neville realised that the tables were for sending the food up in the great hall through magic—or more accurately, house-elf magic.

As he walked with his friends to one of the tables near the pantry, his eyes studied the small hurrying figures of the house-elves that were running around the kitchen. The little creatures with large ball-like eyes and batty ears were familiar to Neville; his great uncle Algie had a house-elf in his service that he had known since he was five.

"Yous is being very naughty Master Weasleys, always coming to eat here instead of dining proper in the Great Hall" one of the elves began scolding the twins while serving them food.

"Oh, admit it, you love us Tippy," Fred retorted teasingly, making the little elf's cheeks green.

"Now eat," the elf said before moving on to work again.

"I didn't know Hogwarts had house elves," Mark commented, grabbing some chips.

"Yeah, they run the place. Food, cleaning, laundry, you name it" George answered

"But why have I not noticed them before?"

"That means they're doing their job well," Neville answered. On seeing Mark's confusion, he clarified further, "It's a sign of a good elf, to not be seen." Mark nodded slowly at this.

"None of our books mention anything about them. Do they get paid or are they like slaves?"

George immediately hushed him.

"Don't ever mention pay in front of them," he hissed. "They work because they like to work, and in exchange, their magic is enhanced by the Master."

"I didn't know that," remarked Neville with a questioning face.

"Yeah, we know a few things," Fred said pompously, "Our grades may say otherwise, but that's the truth."

"You throw away your marks to get a reaction out of your mother," Mark said, to the surprise of Neville. "I'm not stupid. You guys are able to brew NEWT level potions in your third year. You think I didn't notice the shrinking solution you used in your pranks?"

Neville turned to see the gobsmacked looks on Fred and George's face, and couldn't help but snicker.

"You caught us," they said finally, raising their hands. "No trying to hide it." They looked at each other as if deciding something. Finally, it was George who spoke.

"We want to open a joke shop when we leave Hogwarts."

"What?" Neville asked in disbelief. Whatever he thought their reason might have been, this hadn't been it.

"No shit," said Mark. With a thoughtful look on his face, he continued, "You guys are serious."

"Like—like work at Zonko's?" Neville asked.

"No. Our own shop. We even thought of a name for it —" George said in the most serious tone Neville had ever seen him use.

"— Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes" Fred supplied.

"So, what's the issue?" Mark asked, "Your mother doesn't like that?"

Fred snorted at that. "She'd have kittens if she found out. No, she wants us to work in the ministry, just like Percy." He answered dejectedly, "And anyway, it's just a dream."

"It'll work out," Mark said sympathetically, "You've still got four more years."

They both nodded. An awkward silence followed

"So, do you guys have a date for Valentine's day?"

* * *

14th February 1992

A loud thud from outside the door had Harry burrowing deeper in his blankets. Of all the things that could have happened to him at Hogwarts, this was the one he had expected the least.

The day had begun like every other at Hogwarts; once he'd gotten dressed, he'd proceeded to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was when he had arrived in the Great Hall that he had noticed multiple pairs of eyes on him; specifically, those belonging to the many girls at Hogwarts. It was only when he realised it was Valentines Day that it made some sense to him. Yet, he wasn't prepared at all for what had followed. Within a few minutes, Harry found himself hounded by girls—older girls asking to be his valentines.

Of course, Harry was surprised by this. In his life before Hogwarts, no one had bothered giving him a second look, except to comment on the shabbiness of his attire. Uncle Vernon had even remarked on occasion that no sane girl would ever want a freak like him. Harry hadn't commented on his insults, but he hadn't disagreed with them. After all, why would anyone bother with him?

So here he was, hiding in his dorms, away from all the girls who wanted to be seen with 'The Harry Potter'. Harry was thankful for Ron—the boy hadn't teased Harry but rather shared in his discomfort, helping him to escape to the dorms after classes. They had ended up chatting on their beds for a while, discussing what they would do if the had the Philosophers Stone, and what the upcoming match against Hufflepuff was going to be like.

The whole of Gryffindor House had been in an uproar earlier yesterday when it had been told that Snape was going to referee the match. After their last victory, Gryffindor was gaining a lead in the House Cup, catching up to Slytherin. Technically since Slytherin was not one of the teams playing, Snape was expected to be impartial in his refereeing. But this was Snape.

Harry, however, had other worries. Snape had tried to kill him from the stands in the last match, and he was most likely to try again this time, now that he could get to Harry easily in the air. Hermione suggested feigning an injury to get out of the match; Ron even went as far as to suggest him to actually break a limb, but Harry did not agree. Against their protests, Harry decided that he would be playing, since he didn't want the Slytherins to have something to further mock him.

He just hoped he would make it out alive.

* * *

16th February 1992

Mark rubbed his eyes as he closed the book in front of him. He'd been reading the _Standard Book of Spells Grade 4_, more specifically the summoning charm.

It had actually come up when he'd been feeling too lazy to get up from the armchair in the common room and get his books from his trunk. He had asked Percy, who had been sitting nearby if a spell could do that. In a long winding explanation that included wizarding etiquettes about laziness that had followed, Mark had come to know of the rather nifty charm.

He had spent all day after class reading up on the fourth-year spell in the library. Checking his watch, he saw that he had missed dinner. He immediately remembered the kitchens.

Happy that he had a reliable source of food, he set off towards it. On his way, he pondered over the interesting subject of making spells. The wand movement for the summoning charm that he had read had been fairly simple, however, it was the power draw pattern that had been intriguing.

For all the other spells they had learnt, the power draw pattern was either a point at the wand tip, like the light from a bulb, or a linear projection like the beam of a torch. The summoning charm, however, had a power draw pattern like a doughnut.

The main reason that it was a spell reserved until the fourth year was this; the pattern was not easy to master at all. From the notes that he found in the library, most students took a couple of weeks to get the hang of it.

Mark was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost walked past the entrance to the kitchens. As he'd seen Fred do earlier, he tickled the pear and went inside. He asked for some food, and was immediately served a small banquet to his feeble protests by the elves. Looking at his eager little hosts he wondered aloud.

"Have you guys had your dinner yet? Why don't you join me?"

His innocent question was met by what he figured were scandalised looks. 'Shit,' he thought. His question must have somehow offended them. He decided to look into their minds for answers.

What he found was most interesting. The minds of the house-elves were very different than humans. He found different layers of thoughts, protected by some sort of intruder protections. However, it was constructed in a bizarre fashion — The most private thoughts _and _the most public thoughts were the most easily accessible, with the layers in the middle almost impenetrable to him.

'The knowledge about _their masters_ is the most heavily protected,' he concluded. 'It's as if there is some magic protecting the bond between the elf and its master.' He shook these thoughts, shelving them for rumination.

"I meant no offence," he tried to placate the elves. "I just wished to imply that I would not mind your company."

"It is very kinds of you, Master Smith," one of the elves said, "But it is not proper for a elf to consider itself equal —"

"As you wish," Mark said. "Please do whatever you're comfortable with."

The elves seemed torn at this. Finally, one of them signalled the others, who then left. The lone elf spoke.

"Corky will provide you with company, Master Smith"

Mark smiled as he ate his sandwich. "Thanks, Corky." After munching some more, he asked

"So Corky, how old are you?"

"Corky is being sixteen human years, sir"

"Huh. And how long — how long does a house elf live for?"

Corky thought for a few moments, before replying

"It can be from eighty to two hundred of your years, sir"

"Two hundred?! Really?"

"Yes, sir"

"How long have you worked at Hogwarts?"

"I was born here Master Smith"

"Then you must know the castle like the back of your hand. Do you know any secrets? Something to tell your new friend, perhaps?" Mark asked in an amused tone.

Corky, however, took the question seriously, and immediately answered

"We is bound not to share Hogwarts secrets." Corky took a pause, before adding slowly, "But there is a place that is not a secret. None of the wizard masters know about it. You sees, it is being forgotten"

Mark's interest was piqued.

"Really? Will you tell me?" He asked in the politest tone he could muster. Corky nodded slowly

"On the sixth floor, near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, there is being a secret room." There was a pause before the instructions continued.

"It becomes whatever you wishes it to be. You walks in front of it three times thinking about what you wants and the room comes"

"You're kidding!" Mark hissed excitedly.

"We house-elf cannot lie Master Smith" the elf replied, in an offended tone.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I was just surprised. What's this room called?"

Corky seemed to be satisfied with the clarification, and answered,

"We elves is calling it the Come-And-Go-Room"

* * *

AN:This chapter was extensively reworked and elaborated. There were inconsistencies in POV's, especially in the visit to the kitchen.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	15. A Dragon and a Plan

**A Dragon and a Plan**

* * *

AN: The text in **bold** has been borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ by J.K. Rowling

* * *

22nd February 1992

"You mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?" Hermione asked, alarmed.

Harry nodded. He'd just returned after eavesdropping on a conversation between Snape and Quirrell after the Quidditch Match against Hufflepuff.

His fears about his safety during the match had been laid to rest when he'd seen that Dumbledore had joined the stands as a spectator. Snape had also seemed irritated—Harry figured it was due to his plans being spoilt. The threat now gone, Harry had found himself filled with renewed confidence as he took to the air. Worried that Snape might end up favouring Hufflepuff, Harry focused his attention on the search for the Golden Snitch, finding it floating near the ground. One steep dive later, Harry had the Snitch in his hands—the match ending in Gryffindor's favour, less than fifteen minutes since it began.

After a hearty cheer by his housemates and a personal congratulations by Professor Dumbledore himself, Harry headed to the locker rooms. He had been coming out of the locker rooms when he had spotted Snape—sulking more than his usual self—walking towards the forbidden forest. Taking a risky chance, he followed the Potions master from the air on his Nimbus.

Looking for Snape through the thick foliage had been difficult, so Harry had been forced to follow through the branches. When he had heard voices, he had settled on a thick branch to follow the conversation, which surprisingly was between Snape and Quirrell

**"… ****d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus …"**

**"****Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Philosopher's Stone, after all."**

**Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something but Snape interrupted him.**

**"****Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"**

**"****B-b-but Severus, I —"**

**"****You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step toward him.**

**"****I**—**I don't know what you —"**

**"****You know perfectly well what I mean."**

**An owl hooted loudly, and Harry had nearly fallen out of the tree. He had managed to steady himself in time to hear Snape say, "— your little bit of hocus-pocus. I'm waiting."**

**"****B-but I d-d-don't —"**

**"****Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie."**

Harry had immediately returned, and had told his friends about how he reckoned that Quirrell was one of those protecting the stone and how Snape wanted to get past them.

"There's no way Quirrell will hold on for that long," Ron remarked dryly. "It'll be gone by Tuesday".

Mark looked around in awe. He had decided to follow Corky's instructions and come to the Come and Go Room. And he was not disappointed at all.

In order to test if the room could turn into anything, he had thought about the restricted section of the Library. And lo behold, he was now standing in the room surrounded by bookshelves containing books from the Restricted Section.

'This will be really useful,' he thought. Walking in the aisles, he browsed the various sections. He was surprised to see that most of the volumes were not anything radically different from the books in the non-restricted section. They weren't as exotic and wild as Fred and George had speculated. Mostly, they were just advanced books, kept under lock and key so that they could be used judicially. Some other books were about controlled subjects—like Portkeys—which normally needed Ministry approval to study. Mark guessed that with the Hogwarts Library being the only public library in magical Britain, it made sense that all of these books would be catalogued within it.

Deciding to focus first on the question he had been trying to solve since coming to Hogwarts, Mark began to search the shelves for an appropriate book. After a few quiet minutes, he finally found a book on the subject he'd been hoping to know more about—Legilimency. Taking the thin, leather-bound volume in hand, he wondered if the room could provide a place for him to sit comfortably. Within moments, an armchair and a small seating area materialised nearby.

"Awesome," he said to himself before slumping into the chair. He thought of asking the room for some snacks, but none appeared.

'Must be due to Gamp's Law,' Mark thought. They had been introduced to empirical Gamp's Law of Elemental transfigurations as well as its exceptions by Professor McGonagall. Simply put, food—along with precious metals and magical artefacts like wands—could not be created out of pure magic, and had limitations to the transfigurations that could be applied to it.

Settling in, Mark was quickly absorbed in the book in his hands. After about twenty minutes of reading, he found a passage that seemed to apply to him.

_Not much is known about those who have been called 'Natural' Legilimens. It is speculated that the ability manifests in the subjects pre-adolescence. They are thought to be able to read minds without the need for a wand or spell._

_It is quite possible that the legilimens spell itself was developed to mimic this ability in the first place. Some evidence even points to the fact that a Natural Legilimens can read the thoughts from an unprotected mind without the need for eye contact, most widely thought to be essential for the ability. _

_However, the few records that have been found all indicated that such individuals do not make into adulthood, killing themselves to escape the 'voices in their head.' As opposed to Natural Legilimens, Natural Occlumens, however, have confirmed evidence for their existence, with many notable wizards recorded in history as examples._

'Natural Legilimens,' Mark pondered. All the descriptions did match all the symptoms after all. Being able to read minds without eye contact or spells, hearing voices in the head. The part about not making into adolescence sent a chill through his bones. Mark's thoughts went to Edwin, and what would have happened if he hadn't learned to control his ability.

Looking at his watch, Mark saw that it was time for curfew. He got up and kept the book back. He would have to return here to check out everything else. He wondered if he should tell about this to his friends.

'No,' he realised. Maybe Neville, after some time. But not Fred and George. Heaven knew what would happen if the two pranksters got access to the Restricted Section. And in any case, they had a few secrets of their own. This could be his.

* * *

1st March 1992

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Ron stood dumbfounded in the middle of his dorm. He hadn't expected his birthday to be celebrated today. When no one had said anything in the morning, he just assumed they had no idea. Seeing the people surrounding him, he realised that they must have been planning the surprise.

All the Gryffindor first years were there, and so were the members of the Quidditch team. The room was decorated with streamers, and the twins were standing to the side with a cake.

"I — I thought you guys must have forgotten," Ron stammered, unable to think of anything else.

"We wouldn't forget ickle Ronniekins birthday now, would we?" said George.

"No way, brother mine," Fred chimed away in reply.

"Hermione reminded them," came Mark's voice from the corner, where he was standing smugly. Ron turned towards the girl in question, who blushed heavily.

"It was Harry's plan. He thought of the party," she quickly retorted. A warm feeling rose in Ron's chest, and he turned towards Harry

"Thanks, mate," said Ron, giving him a hug. Harry just shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ron looked around the room to see the many smiling and chatting faces everywhere before a smile graced his lips. It was good to have friends.

24th April 1992

"Hagrid, you live in a _wooden_ house," remarked Hermione, and Harry agreed with her assessment. There was no way this situation could turn out for the better.

Hermione had realised a week earlier that the end-of-year-exams were drawing nearer, and had diverted both Harry and Ron's attention away from their worries about Quirrell. The Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor hadn't cracked yet, much to their relief, and Hermione had taken up to nag them about their revisions.

Today while in the library, Ron had spotted Hagrid sneaking around in the section on Dragons. They'd followed their large friend to his hut on the grounds, where they had quite an interesting conversation about the protections around the Philosophers Stone.

However, before they left, Harry had noticed something in the fireplace. Sitting underneath the kettle, in the heart of the fire was a huge black egg.

Hagrid had procured a dragon's egg from somewhere, and Harry remembered that the gamekeeper had mentioned how he would like to have one.

When he questioned Hagrid about it, his friend answered that he was fine and the manner in which he'd come across the egg— he had won it last night at the pub from a passing stranger. He told them how he had read up all about raising dragons from the books he'd gotten from the library

But Harry's worries were not laid to rest. Ron had informed them earlier in the library how dragon breeding was outlawed centuries ago, and winning an egg in a pub was by no means legal.

Hagrid was in a lot of trouble.

* * *

30th April 1992

"I'm telling you, Malfoy is up to something," Neville whispered to Mark after Charms, which was the last class of the day.

"And how is that any of your concern?" Mark replied. Neville had been going on and on about some illegal dragon that Harry and Ron had been talking about, and how Malfoy had heard them. Afterwards, Neville had seen the boy look very smug, like the cat that caught the canary.

"Because I don't want them to get caught," Neville replied vehemently. "Why don't you believe me?"

Mark held his tongue and considered his friend's words.

"Ok, let's say you heard correctly. Don't you think there is a chance that the two of them might have intentionally let Malfoy overhear to get him in trouble? You know, a reply to that trophy room trap?"

Neville clenched his jaw and answered in a confident tone.

"No, because they're not like that. It's as—"

"Ok, they're not deceiving anyone. Say there's really a dragon. Don't you think Harry will have a plan for it?" Mark interrupted.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. Malfoy knows of Harry's plan!" Neville replied, exasperated. "You know, forget it!" he said finally, before walking away angrily.

Mark shook his head. He decided to head to the common room and practice his transfiguration assignment. They had to figure out how to transfigure different source materials into the same target material, and write an essay on it. The actual practical transfiguration would not be required of them until their third year; for now they were just studying the theory.

The restricted section from the Come and Go Room was quite brilliant and was even helping him a lot with his coursework. He had limited his time there of course, since Fred and George had questioned him about his mysterious disappearances.

Taken aback at their persistence that he had not been elsewhere, Mark had _gleaned_ them to find that they had a magical map of Hogwarts, which had the ability to track every occupant. The next time he visited the Come and Go Room, he simply asked it to make it appear on any map that he was inside the library or the lavatory.

Reaching the common room, he groaned when he remembered the Herbology essay due on Monday. He'd need to beg Neville to help him with that.

8th May 1992

Ron was lying in the hospital wing feeling horrible. How could he have been so stupid?

First, he'd spoke a little too loudly when discussing Hagrid's new dragon egg with Harry and Hermione, and Malfoy had most likely overheard them. After receiving the message from Hagrid, they'd gone to watch the egg hatching after Herbology ended. To their horror, Malfoy had seen the dragon from a crack in the window curtains.

After thinking about what to do with Norbert—the now rapidly growing Norwegian Ridgeback—for a week, Harry had the most brilliant idea. He had suggested that they contact Charlie in Romania. Hagrid had reluctantly agreed.

Ron cursed himself. Why hadn't _he_ thought of Charlie? It was his own brother, after all. Was he so incompetent that he couldn't even remember such a simple thing?

To make matters worse, the cursed dragon had bit Ron. He had been helping Hagrid feed Norbert some dead rats, and the bloody animal had bitten him on his finger. He tried to put off going to the hospital wing, as Madam Pomfrey might recognise the dragon bite, but his hand swelled to twice its size and the wound turned green. Although he told the matron he had been bitten by Hagrid's dog Fang, she had not seemed convinced. Thankfully she didn't ask him any questions, focusing instead on curing the wound.

Charlie's letter had arrived, telling them to go on top of the tallest tower with Norbert at midnight on Saturday. Now, stuck in the hospital wing, he was of no use to his friends.

To top all of it, he had been even more stupid and kept Charlie's letter in a book. Malfoy had come in the hospital wing to laugh at him, telling Madam Pomfrey that he wanted to borrow one of Ron's books. And Ron had just given it to him, completely forgetting about Charlie's letter which he had kept inside. Now, Malfoy would know all about Charlie and the dragon. Since it was too late to change the plan, Harry and Hermione had decided to go with it, counting on the advantage of having an Invisibility Cloak.

Ron's insides churned. He hoped he had not doomed his friends.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been slightly reworked and updated. Since the story has yet to reach the major points of divergences, the near canon events will be summarised. This is to clarify which events have and have not happened.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review.


	16. Midnight Excursions

**Midnight Excursions**

* * *

9th May 1992

"Fifty points?" Harry gasped. This was bad. Losing fifty points would nullify the points they'd won for the last Quidditch match.

"Fifty points _each_," Professor McGonagall flared—her gaze darting between Harry, Hermione, and Neville. "I don't want to hear a single complaint about this. I've never been more ashamed of Gryffindor students," she finished with a scowl on her face.

Harry's heart turned to lead. There was no way they would be able to make up for this.

It had all started when Harry and Hermione had taken Norbert to be smuggled out of the castle. On their way up to the top of the tallest tower, they had heard Malfoy getting caught by Filch for loitering around after curfew. Laughing silently at Malfoy's pleas to the caretaker that there were students smuggling dragons, both Harry and Hermione proceeded to their rendezvous with Charlie Weasley. Once Norbert was safely handed over to Charlie, Harry and Hermione had almost bounced down the stairs in joy—only realizing later that they had left the Invisibility Cloak at the top of the tower.

Professor McGonagall had been waiting down the stairs for any sign of them. Beside her were Malfoy—detained by Filch—and Neville—ho had been out after curfew to warn them of Malfoy's plot. Thankfully, Professor McGonagall had assumed that the story about the dragon smuggling was an obvious lie by Harry and Hermione to get Malfoy in trouble, and that Neville had been caught unaware. Given that they wanted to protect Hagrid, Harry and Hermione silently agreed to Professor McGonagall's accusations. After all, there was no way to know if telling the truth about Norbert would make things better. But Harry had had no idea that the punishment would be this bad. The small consolation was the fact that Malfoy had lost Slytherin fifty points too.

"Now get to bed the four of you," Professor McGonagall snapped, before walking away. Harry, Hermione, and Neville walked their way to Gryffindor Tower without sharing a single word. When they got to the dormitory, Neville didn't give Harry a chance to apologise, drawing the curtains of his four-poster bed shut within moments.

Racked with guilt, Harry found himself unable to sleep all night. He could hear the light sobs coming from Neville's bed, but he didn't know what to say to the poor boy to make it better. And what would happen tomorrow, when the rest of the Gryffindor House would find out? Surely everyone would notice a decrease of a_ hundred and fifty _points?

In one night, all the chances of Gryffindor winning the House Cup had vanished. The older students were not going to be happy.

One thing was certain. Harry pledged to not go meddling around in things that weren't his business.

* * *

22nd May 1992

"So, what do we do Harry?" asked Ron, the light of adventure kindling in his eyes. Harry didn't think his pledge to himself would be put to the test so soon.

He'd just told his friends about what he had overheard. While walking back from the library, he had heard sobs coming from a classroom. When he neared it, he had heard Quirrell's voice pleading with someone.

"No—no—not again, please —"

Harry moved closer to hear to who was threatening him but evidently missed the next exchange. He finally heard Quirrell assenting softly.

"All right—all right —"

Immediately afterwards, Quirrell came rushing out of the classroom, and Harry instinctively dived into the shadows. The professor straightened his turban as he looked around the corridor before hurriedly walking away.

Once the footsteps had disappeared, Harry had peered into the classroom, but it was empty except for a door swaying ajar on the other side. The other occupant must have gone the other way, and Harry could have bet his broom that it had been Snape. The conversation was unmistakably like the one he had overheard in the forest that day, and it could only mean one thing.

Quirrell had finally given in.

"Go to Professor Dumbledore," said Hermione, replying to Ron. "We should have done that a long time ago. If we get involved ourselves, we'll be expelled next," she said with a hint of fear in her voice.

"But we have no proof," Harry retorted. "Who's going to back us up? Quirrell? Filch? Or do you think Snape will happily admit to conspiracy?" Taking a pause, he added, "And don't forget, everyone knows that we hate him. Plus, it's going to take a lot of explaining to cover our knowledge of things we're not even supposed to know about."

"If we just do a bit of poking around —" Ron said, drawing out every word.

"Oh no, we have done _enough_ of poking around," Harry snapped, before taking out his notes to study.

* * *

''You've got to help me with this Neville," Mark said, frustrated with the book in front of him. Herbology was just so—frustrating.

"I can't make out the difference between _Anjelica_ and _Arnica_," he said to his friend. After a moment he added, "Other than one's a blonde and the other a redhead."

Neville didn't even crack a smile.

'Oh, come on,' Mark thought, 'that was a good one.'

Ever since the big fiasco with Gryffindor House losing a hundred and fifty points a few days ago, Mark had been trying to cheer up his friend. But it was to no avail. The students were pretty angry about the whole thing, and they made sure everyone responsible knew about it. The only person having it worse than Neville was Harry, and that was because he was more well known.

"Yeah, okay," said Neville, his voice the most dejected Mark had ever known it to be. Taking the Herbology volume from Mark's hand, he started to explain the difference between the two similar-sounding plants.

Mark knew that he should have been paying attention, but somehow, he soon found himself lost in his thoughts. Initially, he had been extremely angry at Harry and Hermione, but after _gleaning_ the bushy-haired girl, Mark had learnt that the story about the dragon was actually true and that the two of them were only trying to protect Hagrid, the kind gamekeeper who the young dragon belonged to.

This had dissipated Mark's anger, and he decided to chalk it all off to just bad luck. To be honest, he didn't realise why all the Gryffindors were taking the House Points so seriously. They were there just for an incentive. Not that it was going to matter in real-life, right? Why incessantly bully someone over it?

Mark had tried telling this to Neville, but the whole incident had affected him a lot. His friend had shrunk into a shell, barely making any conversation than necessary. Plus, since it was so near the exams, they had stopped their weekly music practices too, which further made the already shy Neville into a recluse. The whole thing felt very depressing, and Mark hoped that Neville would be able to get out of this mood soon.

A random noise from across the room brought Mark out of his thoughts and he realised that he hadn't paid attention to Neville's explanation—which was now finished. Deciding to relieve his friend from repeating the whole thing again, Mark just _gleaned_ the information present in front of Neville's mind.

* * *

26th May 1992

"Are you all right?" the centaur standing over him asked, offering his hand to Harry. Harry took it and pulled himself up.

"Thank you. What—What was that?" Harry asked, his mind occupied by the figure he had just encountered. As the adrenaline rushing through him trickled to a stop, Harry's thoughts wandered to just how he had ended up here tonight.

Professor McGonagall had informed Harry earlier today that he would be serving detention for the incident on _that_ night. Dejected, Harry had shown up at Hagrid's hut along with Hermione, Neville and Malfoy. Harry was grateful for the fact that Hagrid had arranged for the detention to be with him; he must be feeling guilty for the fact that Harry and Hermione got into trouble for _his_ dragon.

The detention was a trip into the forbidden forest, where they were trying to find an injured unicorn. Once they entered the forest, Hagrid split them into two groups; Harry and Hermione accompanying Hagrid in one, while Neville and Malfoy in the other with Fang, Hagrid's dog—who Malfoy insisted accompany him. Harry was glad that he wasn't paired up with Malfoy, but that didn't last for long. A few moments after they separated, the blond Slytherin had tried scaring a nervous Neville, who had shot off red sparks—the signal for danger. When Hagrid found out, he paired Harry with Malfoy instead.

Soon, they separated again and caught on to the trail of silvery blood left by the injured unicorn. As they traversed the dark forest, Harry had wondered exactly what had hurt the unicorn; from what Hagrid had told them, Unicorns were peaceful creatures who were extremely difficult to hunt. None of the animals in Forbidden Forest were fast enough to catch them. Malfoy speculated that it could be a werewolf—after all, there were rumours that a werewolf lived somewhere deep in the forest. But before Harry could wonder any further, he and Malfoy found the unicorn lying dead on the forest floor.

It was possibly the saddest thing Harry had ever seen. The unicorn's coat was bright white, gleamed softly in the dim moonlight, while its blood—pooled around it—shined a brilliant silver. It was a foal—its golden horn had not formed fully—and the sight of its lifeless face invoked a deep sorrow in Harry's heart.

But soon it was replaced with something different—a primal terror—as a hooded figure appeared out of the shadows. Harry watched transfixed as the figure lowered its head over the silver wound on the slender figure of the unicorn and began drinking its blood. A small part of Harry's brain identified Malfoy and Fang running away, but Harry found himself unable to move even as panic welled inside of him. And then it happened.

Just as the figure looked straight at Harry—bright, silvery unicorn blood dripping down its front, white-hot pain pierced Harry's head. It was as if the scar on his forehead was on fire. As Harry saw the figure slowly approach him, he finally found his legs able to move, but the pain in his head was too disorienting. Clutching his head, he tripped and fell backwards, dread creeping in as the hooded figure floated near.

But then something—or rather, someone—else appeared. A centaur came galloping from the forest and jumping cleanly over Harry, charged at the figure, which retreated hastily. Now that Harry was standing beside it, Harry studied the centaur more closely, noticing the white-blond hair and palomino coat.

Earlier tonight, when he had been searching the forest with Hagrid, they had come across two other centaurs. They had introduced themselves as Bane and Ronan, and from the cryptic and mysterious conversation they had with Hagrid, Harry found them to be fairly reserved creatures. When Hagrid had asked them for help in searching the unicorn or its predator, they had been unhelpful. Instead, they had jabbered on something about Mars being especially bright tonight.

But this centaur seemed different. Compared to Bane and Ronan, this centaur looked younger. Instead of looking up at the stars in the sky, he watched Harry with a piercing gaze. Harry was still waiting on an answer as to the identity of the hooded figure that had attacked him, but the new centaur stood silent.

"You are the Potter boy," the centaur finally said, his eyes on Harry's scar. "This forest is not safe for you—especially at this time of the night. Can you ride? You need to get back to Hagrid."

Harry just nodded dumbly, still half shocked by the events that had happened. The centaur knelt down on his front legs and introduced himself as Harry clambered onto his back.

"I'm Firenze."

As he got back up again, the sounds of thundering hooves came from behind them. Ronan and Bane came bursting through the trees, along with a few more centaurs.

"Have you no shame, acting like a common mule?" Bane shouted, before proceeding to speak in a language Harry couldn't understand.

Firenze retorted back in the same language, his front hooves stomping the ground in anger. Harry could make out his name being spoken, but couldn't fully follow the conversation. The centaurs were obviously proud beings, and carrying a human seemed to be some sort of a forbidden act.

"Do you not see the dead unicorn?" Firenze finally spoke in English again. "You speak of the planets, but conveniently forget what else has also been foretold."

Bane grunted in anger, his hooves stomping the forest floor. Ronan, on the other hand, seemed to want to pacify the situation

"I do not believe it refers to one of us, Firenze," he said calmly. "The centaurs have sworn to never interfere, and fate would not demand us to do so now."

"Then you doom us to perish, along with the rest," Firenze snapped, before turning around and galloping off with Harry still on his back.

Harry watched as the centaur Firenze took him on a forest path different from the one he had taken earlier. Harry tried to resist the urge to ask Firenze questions, but couldn't stop himself.

"Why was Bane so angry? Is it because of me?" Harry waited for a reply, but Firenze didn't give him one. Remembering what had happened earlier, Harry continued, "And what was that the thing you saved me from earlier?"

Firenze didn't talk, and the silence stayed unbroken until they reached a clearing, which Harry recognised to be one near the edge of the forest. Slowing to a stop, Firenze motioned for Harry to get off. Realizing that he wasn't going to get any answers, Harry dismounted quietly. He was about to say goodbye when the centaur finally spoke.

"Harry Potter. Are you familiar with the use of Unicorn blood?"

Harry shook his head.

"I've only heard of Unicorn tail hair," he said, remembering his trip to Ollivander's in Diagon Alley.

"That is because the Unicorn is the most innocent of all creatures. It is a monstrous thing, a crime against nature itself to have slain something so pure." Firenze took a pause, forming the words carefully before continuing.

"The blood of a Unicorn will keep you from death, but the cost is terrible. Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain would be willing to pay it, for it will condemn you to a half-life, a cursed life."

"Who'd be that desperate?" Harry wondered aloud. "Isn't death better?"

"It is," Firenze agreed pensively, seemingly unsure of whether or not to continue speaking. "Unless all you need to do is survive. Survive long enough to be resurrected by something else—something that will mean you may never die."

"The Elixir of Life," Harry muttered, the pieces finally falling into place. "But who —"

"Can you think of nobody who has been waiting for over a decade to return to power?"

Harry blood ran cold as he realised who Firenze was referring to. _Voldemort_

* * *

4th June 1992

"Dumbledore's _gone_?" Harry almost shouted, "_Now_?"

"Professor Dumbledore is a very important wizard, Potter, and he has many responsibilities on his time —"

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat. His worst fears were coming true. Ever since he had returned from the forbidden forest, only one thing had been on his mind—the thought of Voldemort walking into Hogwarts and getting the Stone. Added to that, Harry felt as if Snape was an edge, almost anticipating something. As if he was waiting for a signal.

If that wasn't enough, his scar—which had pained white-hot in the forbidden forest—was now giving off a continuous throbbing pain in his head. Harry had tried going to Madam Pomfrey and asking for a pain potion, but it had had no effect. The pain was still there and coupled with the thoughts of Voldemort's impending arrival, Harry was surprised he had managed to give his end of year exams through the pain and anxiety.

Still, the thought of Professor Dumbledore had given him enough serenity. After all, he was the one wizard Voldemort had always been afraid of, and as long as Dumbledore was in the castle, the stone would be safe.

Plus, there were the protections for the Stone. They knew that different professors had set up different protections. Even though Snape might have managed to find out what everyone else had done, he had no idea how to get through Fluffy. And Hagrid would never willingly betray Professor Dumbledore.

But today had thrown all that off.

It was just after their last exam had ended that Harry had realised something. Hagrid wound never betray Dumbledore willingly, but it was possible he was tricked into it. Getting Hagrid to loosen up with the information on his mind was fairly easy; after all the three of them had done it themselves. All he needed were a few choice compliments and the conversation to turn towards the topic. And if someone got something for Hagrid—something he had been wanting desperately—it would be a lot easier. Even more so if that something was a dragon egg.

On realising this, the three of them had rushed to Hagrid's hut, wanting to confirm their suspicions. Harry's blood ran cold when Hagrid said that the hooded guy who had given him the egg had seemed especially interested in Fluffy; and that Hagrid told him that all the three-headed dog needed to go to sleep was some light music.

Thus, they had then rushed back towards the castle, anxious to inform professor Dumbledore that the Stone had been compromised but Professor McGonagall's words had again thrown them off. Dumbledore had received an urgent owl, and he was away in London; the time was ripe for stealing the Stone.

Harry closed his eyes as the pain in his scar throbbed even more. He listened silently as Hermione pleaded with Professor McGonagall.

"This is important, Professor."

"What do you have to say that is more important than the Ministry of Magic, Ms Granger?"

"Professor—it's about the Philosopher's Stone," Harry answered, opening his eyes to see Professor McGonagall drop the books she had been carrying.

"We know that Sn— that someone is going to try and steal the stone —"

"I do not know how you found out about the stone," she interrupted, "but it is too well protected. Now I do not want to hear you tell another student some made-up story as a prank, Potter."

She looked at the three students in front of her and picking up her books, left.

Once she was out of earshot, Harry turned to his friends.

"It's tonight."

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. It is essentially a summarization of canon events during this period, and I have clarified it a bit for the fandom blind to understand. The action begins in the next chapter and so do the divergences, so stay tuned.

Your feedback is appreciated. Please read and review. Thanks!


	17. Famous Five

**Famous Five**

* * *

4th June 1992

"Where are you going now?"

Harry winced and cursed inwardly as Neville's voice carried across the common room. Nothing seemed to be going according to plan.

Once they had realised that the Stone was in real danger, the three of them had tried to keep an eye on Fluffy's door and Snape. Under the pretence of meeting Professor Flitwick, Hermione had hung around the staff room to try and keep an eye on Snape. But Snape had noticed her and dismissed her to come back later. Harry and Ron had tried to stay close to the entrance to Fluffy's room in the forbidden third-floor corridor, periodically checking to see whether the three-headed dog was still awake. But Professor McGonagall had found them and driven them off after threatening to take off House points. Thus, even though they had intended to watch the entrance to Fluffy's room and keep a track of the Potions Professor, they had failed to manage either.

Having no plan to check up further on the situation, they had decided to go and stop Snape themselves. Actually, Harry had decided that he would go alone, but both Ron and Hermione had refused to stay back. They had stayed awake in the common room late enough for the students to empty, before heading out. But again, to their rotten luck, it was not.

"Nowhere Neville. It's nothing. We—We are just stretching our legs," Harry said, trying to sound casual. His companions nodded quickly, but the guilt was evident on their faces.

"You're going out again. You'll be caught, and Gryffindor will be in trouble again," the normally shy Neville spoke angrily. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Why don't you go to bed, Neville? We aren't—" Hermione tried to placate her fellow Housemate, but was interrupted immediately.

"Don't lie to me. You sneaking out for some stupid joke has cost us already —"

"You don't understand, Neville," Harry pleaded. "This—this is important."

Neville was not convinced and took a few steps towards the portrait hole.

"I won't let you do it," he said, reaching in front of the exit, "I'll — I'll fight you!"

"Don't be an idiot!" Ron exploded. "What do you think you're doing? —"

"I think I'm stopping you from breaking any more rules! And don't you dare call me an idiot!" Neville retorted, his fists shaking in anger.

Hermione seemed to be getting impatient and decided to cut the argument short.

"I'm really sorry about this, Neville," she said drawing out her wand and pointing it at Neville. "_Petrificus —_"

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" came the rapid cry from behind them, and the spell hit Hermione before she could complete hers. She went rigid, tumbling onto the floor. Harry twisted quickly, his hand reaching for the wand in his robes, but the voice warned them.

"Oh no, you don't." It was Mark, standing below the stairs to the boy's dorm. "Any of you draw your wand, and you'll be down before you know it."

Mark walked towards Harry, his wand still pointed towards the two boys. Neville seemed both angry and relieved at the intervention of his friend.

"Now will you tell me exactly what it is you're going out there for you to justify hexing Neville for?" Mark demanded.

Harry tried to evaluate the situation he was now facing. He was quickly losing time, and Snape would probably have reached Fluffy already. There was no way they would be able to give Mark the slip. Should he tell the truth?

"It's none of your damn business!" yelled Ron. "Why do you have to poke your nose where it doesn't belong?" Harry could make out that Ron was getting distressed, and Mark was quickly losing his patience. Coming to a decision, he spoke.

"It's alright Ron. I think its best we explain." Ron seemed shocked at this but nodded weakly. Harry then turned to Mark.

"You know the forbidden corridor on the third floor? Well, Professor Dumbledore has been hiding the Phi—something there all year. We—We know that Voldemort —" There was a small gasp and shudder from Ron and Neville, but Mark seemed unfazed.

Harry continued, "is looking for it, and Snape is going to steal it tonight since Dumbledore is not in the castle."

A stunned silence followed as both Neville and Mark digested the information.

"We'll come with you."

Harry was surprised. Not just at the words, but by the fact that it was Neville who had spoken them.

"It will—it'll be dangerous" Harry warned, but he could sense the futility of the words as the left his mouth.

"We'll be careful then," Mark said, his eyes holding a silent conversation with Neville.

* * *

As they edged near the forbidden third-floor corridor, Mark wondered how he had managed to land himself in this situation.

He was sneaking out after curfew, going to a section of the castle explicitly forbidden to the students, and possibly attack one of his teachers. Harry, Ron, and Neville were currently at the head of their group, hiding underneath Harry's invisibility cloak, checking if their path was clear. He was following a few steps behind along with Hermione, trying to stick in the shadows.

Mark tried to mentally review all that he had learnt from Ron's head in the common room. Obviously, Harry had not been lying, and Hagrid had told them the things which supported the story. There was a possibility that Harry had lied to Ron and Hermione about his encounters with Snape and Quirrell, and about the time he had spent in the Forbidden Forest, but that was not Harry.

The most surprising part was the fact that it was the Philosophers Stone that was being protected. Ron's memories about the book Hermione had shown them came to his mind. _Elixir of Life. _Was it possible?

Mark stole a glance at the witch beside him. Hermione was clearly irritated at being stuck with him, and his earlier attack on her was the most likely reason. Moments after Mark had lifted the spell, she had tried to dissuade him and Neville from coming with them but had found herself outvoted. His musings were interrupted when Hermione whispered.

"We're here."

The five of them crowded outside the door and were surprised to find it ajar.

"Well there you are," Harry whispered, "Snape must have already gotten past Fluffy"

That was it. Actual proof that Harry had spoken the truth. Mark tried to steel himself, his hand fisting inside his pocket. A spare quill and a chocolate frog pack brushed his fingers. Swallowing the nervous lump in his throat, he followed his companions inside the room.

A low rumbling reached his ears before he could take in the sight before him. As his eyes wandered across the three oversized canine heads staring at him, his mind timidly registered the fact that out of the five, he was seeing Fluffy for the first time.

"What's that? Look — near its feet." Marks eyes followed Ron's instruction and came across a small golden instrument half covered by the dog's enormous paw. He recognised it.

"It's a harp."

"Snape must have left it," said Harry. "It must wake up once the music stops. Well, here it goes …"

Mark saw Harry draw a flute from his robe and bring it to his lips. The boy blew on it, and the tune which came out was the most atrocious one Mark had ever heard.

"Do you even know how to play it?" Mark hissed. The growls from Fluffy had now become pronounced; the dog was clearly unimpressed by the performance.

Harry tried to improve his playing but ended up making it even worse. Fluffy was getting impatient, and now becoming more alert. Mark shared the dog's sentiment; he hated a bad tune. Impulsively he reached out and snatched the flute from Harry. Putting it to his own lips, he remembered the one tune Mr Cayley had taught him a few years ago.

As the music started to flow, Fluffy' growls softened, and eventually, the big mongrel dozed off. Once he was sure the dog was sound asleep, he stopped playing and looked at his companions.

"Through the Trapdoor, then."

* * *

Neville peered down the trapdoor—all he could see was black.

"There's no way of climbing down, we'll have to drop" Ron whispered beside him, his nervousness evident.

"I'll hold the door open," Neville said, surprising himself with his own bravery. He still couldn't believe the situation he was currently in.

Harry nodded slightly, and after taking a deep breath, jumped in.

"It's alright. There's a soft landing" came the faint voice of Harry after a few moments. Nodding to the others, Hermione went next. She was followed by Mark and then Ron until it was just Neville who remained.

He was surprised when he too jumped into the tunnel beneath the trapdoor with no hint of nervousness and anxiety that he associated with himself. As he fell in, his mind wandered to the revelations that Harry had made earlier in the common room. Harry was going to stop You-Know-Who, and all Neville could think of was his parents lying in St. Mungo's. There was no way he would let that monster come back to power.

His thoughts were interrupted when he landed with a thump onto something leafy. He found himself in pitch darkness. The only light was coming from the trapdoor above.

"Guys, I'm here." All he heard in reply were muffled voices. A voice, which he reckoned belonged to Ron was the most clearly audible.

"Trap…can't breathe…can't move"

'What?' Before Neville could think about what Ron's words, he found himself immobilised. Something strong had already gripped his legs and he could feel it snaking onto his arms.

"Some sort of vine…" came the weak voice of Harry. "cant concen—dizzy"

'Vine? — Dizzy?' Neville's mind raced to process all the information about the situation he was in. A brief memory of Great Uncle Algie's greenhouse came to his rescue.

"It's Devil's Snare!" he shouted, trying to reach for his wand in his robes. After a brief struggle, he touched the handle and shouted one of the few incantations that he knew well.

"_Lumos Solaris!_"

A Yellow warmth touched his side as it illuminated the area to his right. The building pressure from the vines around his arms lessened. His eyes wandered to the now illuminated room.

_Bloody Hell._ Devil's Snare was one of the most controlled plants in the magical world. Great Uncle Algie was especially proud of the four-foot vine in his greenhouse. Now, Neville found himself surrounded with a vine at least a dozen time's larger.

'Make that twenty times' he added to himself. Now free of his binds, he started moving slowly towards the others. Five minutes later, all five of them were safely out of the Devil's Snare, illuminated in the bright and warm glow from Neville's wand.

"Thanks, Neville," Harry said weakly, his hand massaging his sore ribs. "Let's move"

* * *

Ron followed Harry and the others into the next chamber. His hand was still cradling his throat where the stupid plant had tried to choke him. Thank Merlin Neville had decided to join them. The boy knew his plants well.

As they stepped into the next room, his mind was diverted to the sight before him. Unlike the previous room, it was illuminated by a small white lamp on the ceiling. However, it was not the light which had drawn his attention but the hundreds of sparkly birds flying around the room.

"Will they attack us?" asked Hermione, looking above.

"Probably," said Ron. "They don't look very vicious, but I suppose if they swooped down at once…"

"Even one aiming for our eyes can do a bit of damage," said Mark. "Remember, this is supposed to be a protection for the stone."

Harry had now crept to the door on the other end of the chamber. He tugged at the door but it refused to open.

"Let me try," quipped Hermione, aiming her wand at the door and using the same charm she had used on Fluffy's door that day

"_Alohomora_." She tried the door again, but to no avail. "I should have known, that was too easy."

"The birds have to come into the picture. Why haven't they attacked us?" Mark spoke, addressing Neville beside him. Harry was now squinting upwards when he suddenly exclaimed.

"They're not birds! They're _keys_!"

"Keys?" Ron too examined the sight above him; yes, they were keys.

"You think one of them opens this door?" Mark asked. Harry didn't answer and instead started searching for something in the room.

"Ha! Look — Brooms!" Harry said, "We've got to catch the key to the door!"

"But there are probably hundreds of them!"

Ron approached the door and examined it.

"Judging from the handle, it's probably silver — a big old fashioned one like this lock," he said to Harry, who had already clambered onto a broom. Taking his lead, the others were soon floating on broomsticks.

Ron squinted his eyes, trying to search for the key among the hundreds sweeping past him. He saw that the others were not faring much better than him, except for perhaps Harry. The Gryffindor seeker was flying above everyone else, speeding around in short bursts. Ron privately marvelled at the manner in which Harry was handling the rickety broom.

"There! — Look — with bright blue wings!" Harry cried. "Its feathers have been crumpled on one side!"

'How in the name of Merlin can he see that,' Ron cursed inwardly as he squinted to where Harry was pointing.

"How do we do this?" asked Neville. Ron looked towards the pudgy boy who had surprised him earlier tonight. Not only had he agreed to join Harry, Hermione, and him, but also managed to free them from the Devil's Snare. He had privately doubted Neville's place in Gryffindor along with his own, but now he thought it unfounded.

"As a team," Mark answered. "We are in a closed room, so it will be possible to box the key towards a wall. Hermione, Neville, and I will corner from the sides, you can fly from the top, while Ron can handle the bottom."

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat s his eyes met Mark's. He gave a slight nod despite himself and positioned himself below the others.

The whole manoeuvre must not have taken more than half a minute, but it seemed longer to Ron. According to plan, the four of them moved to corner the winged key as Harry raced after it, managing to grab it near the wall. With a loud cheer, they all descended. Harry handed the key to Ron once they reached the door. Hands trembling, he inserted it into the slot and turned.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been slightly reworked.

Neville and Mark have joined in with Harry, Hermione, and Ron as they head towards the Philosophers Stone. Here, Devil's Snare is a plant probably outside NEWT curriculum, and thus the only way Neville knows about it is because of his passion in the subject. Similarly, Fluffy doesn't sleep without a proper tune and Mark's assistance is required to play the flute properly.

Hermione's character seems robbed of her importance, but her clash with Mark is a major point of her character arc and their relation will evolve over the course of the story. In addition, Ron's insecurities—a major point in his character—are seen much clearly from his perspectives.

Feedback is appreciated. Please Read and Review. Thanks!


	18. Checkmate

**Checkmate**

* * *

AN: The text in **bold** has been borrowed directly from _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_ by J.K. Rowling

* * *

4th June 1992

A Chessboard.

A bloody chessboard.

Mark groaned inwardly at the sight before him. If there ever was a game that he truly detested, it was chess.

Everyone that he met over the years had assumed that because he got good grades and was usually inclined towards serious endeavours, chess would be a game that he liked. The truth, however, was the exact opposite. And the reason for it was something people could never understand.

Firstly, a game of chess required great patience—something Mark never appreciated spending in front of monochrome figurines. Second, and most importantly, Mark had never been able to enjoy the game. The thrill that players usually got in trying to figure out their opponent's strategy was non-existent for him; he couldn't help but be privy to their immediate thoughts.

It wasn't that Mark hadn't tried. Edwin, in his all-knowing wisdom, had tried to teach Mark the intricacies of what he called 'the gentlemen's game'. He had even gifted him a brand-new set; Mark remembered now that it sat unused in the bottom drawer of his room. But the chessboard in front of him was nothing like the one collecting dust back home. No, this was something straight out of a Lewis Carrol book.

In front of Mark was a life-sized chessboard, the chessmen sculptures made of stone. As he moved around, he suddenly found himself staring in the eyes of a stone black knight.

"They're enchanted," Mark whispered softly, but the silence of the room easily carried it across.

"What now?" Neville asked after a moment.

"I think we have to play across the board," said Ron. "Look, there's the door behind the white pieces."

"How exactly do we do that?" Hermione asked.

"We're going to have to be chessmen," Mark answered, locking eyes with Ron. Giving him a slight nod, he proceeded to the black bishop in front of him. "You're the best at this, Ron. Your call"

"What happens if we lose?" Neville asked the question hanging in the air. It was Harry who answered.

"Game over."

"Ron, you should take the King, that way you can direct everyone else," Mark suggested. Ron nodded in reply.

"Good call. We may need to sacrifice the Queen," Ron added. Looking at the others, he continued, "Harry, you take the place of that Bishop, Hermione you take the place of that Rook. Neville, you're the other Rook, and Mark you're that Knight"

At these words, the corresponding black pieces turned their back and walked off the board. The five of them took their positions. Once they were on their squares, a white pawn moved forward two squares.

"White moves first." Ron swallowed the lump in his throat and started to direct his pieces.

As the game progressed, the five of them got a demonstration of what would happen if they failed when one of their pawns was captured. The white queen, on approaching the pawn, smashed it with the stone club in her hand. Mark swore softly as the remains of the pawn were dragged off the board. He could see Ron getting even more nervous at the development and he took even more time to think over his moves.

"Who do you think made this challenge?" Mark asked Hermione, who was standing a couple of squares away.

"Professor McGonagall, obviously. These pieces are all examples of animation." She whispered confidently.

"Huh, you're right. Didn't strike me." Mark turned his attention back to the chessboard to see Ron ordering a black pawn to move. A white bishop moved immediately in response.

"What in the bloody —" Ron said to himself. Although he wasn't good at the game, it was obvious to Mark that the move had been odd.

"Did that move make any sense to you?"

"No," Ron answered, exasperated. "It's actually confusing me. It just forced the same situation in five moves instead of three. It's just not making sense."

"It's stalling," Neville and Hermione answered simultaneously, surprising the other.

"It's meant to be a trap!" Harry exclaimed, coming to a realisation. "So whoever tries to play gets stuck in the game!"

"Wait—you mean the board isn't trying to win, but lengthen the game?" Ron asked, and Hermione nodded vigorously. "Okay then. Let's try this. E4!"

The White Queen moved three squares in response. Ron laughed in delight.

"Oh yes! Now, I've got you."

* * *

"You're a real genius, Ron!"

"It was nothing," Ron replied, heat rising to his cheeks.

Compliments weren't something he was used to. He certainly didn't receive any at home, other than the usual 'Oh, look how you've grown'. He wasn't good at his studies; good enough to pass but certainly not good enough when compared to Bill and Percy. His mother always had some complaint about him. Sometimes it was how untidy and lazy he was, while at others it was to do with his impolite table manners. Not that he remembered anyone taking out the time to teach him any.

"It was _not_ nothing!" Hermione argued passionately, bringing Ron out of his reverie. "Do you realise that you just beat Professor McGonagall at chess, with a handicap of not being able to sacrifice _five pieces?_"

Ron gaped like a fish, turning redder by the moment. He looked at his friends for help, but to no avail. Harry seemed alarmed, taking a step away from Hermione, while Neville and Mark were holding in their sniggers. Finally, turning back to Hermione, he managed to splutter a response.

"I—I wouldn't have been able to win without—without Mark and your help. Eh, how about that?"

"We may have helped, but _you_ played the game," Hermione retorted, poking a finger on his chest. "You are even unable to take a simple compliment!"

Before he could say anything further, he made out was Mark was whispering loudly to Neville.

"Trust Granger to insult someone while complimenting them."

Hermione must have also heard, as she turned to face them. Before she could say anything, however, Harry interrupted by clearing his throat.

"The next door, then?" he asked, and Ron could sense the tension mount back in the room as the five of them remembered what they were doing here in the first place. Sobering up, Ron nodded and followed Harry to the door.

"What do you reckon is next?" asked Mark, voicing the question that was probably on everyone's mind.

"Well, Professor McGonagall put in the chess set, and Flitwick must have charmed the keys," Harry began to think aloud. "Sprout must have put in the plant —"

"Devils Snare," supplied Neville.

"Right, Devil's Snare, and whatever Dumbledore's protection is will be last. So that leaves Quirrell and Snape," Harry finished with a distaste.

Looking at the others who had their wands drawn, he nodded before slowly opening the door. It was pitch dark inside. The first thing that hit them was the smell—smell which Ron recognised immediately.

"Troll," Harry hissed violently. "It's another troll!"

"What do you mean another troll?" Mark asked. "Do you mean the one at the Halloween feast?"

"Yes, we fought that one in the bathroom," Ron said. "Should've gotten more than fifteen points for that," he added nervously.

"And how did you beat that troll?" Mark asked, obviously curious about the events.

"Guys," Neville said softly, but Ron found himself paying attention to Hermione's explanation.

"They threw rocks at the troll to confuse it, and Harry climbed onto its back and put his wand up the troll's nose. Ron levitated the troll's club in the air and dropped it right onto its head. They were very brave" Hermione finished with a hint of pride.

"Uh, Guys," Neville spoke again, a little louder this time. Ron was about to ask him what it was when Mark spoke next.

"So that's how we do it? Go for the club?" Mark asked, preparing himself for a fight.

"Guys!" Neville now hissed with enough force to draw everyone's attention. "It's been put to sleep already. Listen!"

The four of them quieted down and paid attention. Surely enough, Ron could make out the soft snores.

"That's a relief," Ron said, breaking the silence. "You reckon Snape did it?" he asked more seriously.

"Must be. Let's go," Harry said, his voice betraying his nervousness. They proceeded towards Neville who had managed to find the door to the next chamber.

* * *

Pulling the door open, the sight that met their eyes was pretty anticlimactic. Just a table with seven differently shaped bottles.

"Snape's," remarked Harry.

"Seems tame for the greasy git," Ron observed. Harry nodded in agreement.

Slightly relaxed, they crossed over the threshold. As soon as they all were inside the room, however, a fire sprang up in the doorway behind them. It was a sickly purple in colour. At the same time, black flames shot up in the doorway leading forward.

"This seems more like it," Mark said to no one in particular.

"Look at this!" Hermione whispered. Harry's attention was drawn to a rolled piece parchment that she was pointing towards. Flattening it on the table, the five of them read its contents.

**_Danger lies_****_ before you, while safety lies behind,_**

**_Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,_**

**_One among us seven will let you move ahead,_**

**_Another will transport the drinker back instead,_**

**_Two among our number hold only nettle wine,_**

**_Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line._**

**_Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,_**

**_To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:_**

**_First, however slyly the poison tries to hide_**

**_You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;_**

**_Second, different are those who stand at either end,_**

**_But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;_**

**_Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,_**

**_Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;_**

**_Fourth, the second left and the second on the right_**

**_Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight._**

Harry furrowed his brows as he thought about Snape's poem. Somewhere, a small part of his mind was laughing at the words 'Snape' and 'poetry' being called in the same context, but for now, he was focused on the contents of the said poem.

He looked around the room to see a myriad of reactions from his friends. Ron looked flabbergasted, clearly unnerved by the poem. Neville looked nervous, as if dreading Snape to step out of the shadows any moment. Mark was busy studying the different shaped bottles in front of them, while Hermione seemed to be reciting the poem in her mind again, a surprising smile on her face.

"It's a puzzle—a logic puzzle," she finally said, her eyebrows now furrowing and her mind clearly racing to solve it. She began pacing down the length of the table, muttering to herself. Ron took a step back to let her work in peace; Harry and Neville followed his cue. Mark, on the other hand, moved closer and peered at the bottles.

"Seven bottles: three poison, two wine —" Hermione said

"— one to go forward, one to go back," Mark finished. "It can't be that simple."

"You've figured it out?" Hermione asked pointedly. Mark shook his head.

"No, but it's solvable," he replied. Hermione nodded at that before turning her attention back to the parchment. After a few minutes, she spoke again, drawing out her words.

"The smallest bottle will let us go forward—through the black fire." Her voice, however, showed no sign of solving the puzzle. She picked up the bottle in question and showed it to the others. It held enough for only a single swallow.

"Which one will let you back through the purple flames?" asked Harry.

Hermione pointed at another rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

The dread inside him was rising with every second. He decided what he needed to do.

"Good, you guys drink that and go back —" He couldn't finish his words as both Ron and Neville began to object loudly. Mark who was still examining the other bottles, suddenly moved to Hermione and snatched the small bottle from her hand.

"No!" Harry shouted as he saw Mark move the bottle towards his mouth; it stopped just near his nose. They watched as he sniffed it, seemingly searching for something.

"Hermione," Mark spoke slowly, "isn't Nettle wine a diluting agent?"

"Yes, in certain cases. It allows certain potions to be diluted without reducing their effectiveness. The most common use would be for—for antidotes," she answered, her face lighting up at each word she spoke. "Of course! That's what we can do!"

"What do you mean?" asked Neville.

"We can dilute the potion in the smallest bottle —" Hermione answered

"— and have enough for all of us to go through! See, we can all go through!" Ron said triumphantly to Harry.

"But—" Harry tried to argue, but Neville interrupted.

"No Harry, we won't be abandoning you now."

Harry looked at his friends who had the same determination on their face. He didn't want to place them in any more danger. Realising that he was outvoted, he sighed and nodded.

Mark immediately went to the table and poured the contents of the smallest bottle into the largest, and mixed it around. One by one they all took a gulp and shuddered.

"_Eeeugh_, it's like drinking ice," Ron remarked.

"Like bad ice," Mark added.

"Ready then?" Harry said drawing his wand from his robes. It was time.

"Let's go."

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and slightly elaborated. There were POV inconsistencies which I've now smoothed out.

The chess match in PS has been one of the most interesting aspects of the book for me. Unfortunately, neither JKR nor I seem to have enough understanding of the game to elaborate the moves of the match and make it exciting. If any of you would like to help out with respect to this, I would like to extend that part in this chapter.\

Ron and Mark's relationship is something that will be understated throughout the story. They're someone who work well together, able to think on similar wavelengths. It does develop into a close friendship further along in the story.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review!


	19. The Dark Lord

**The Dark Lord**

* * *

4th June 1992

"You?!"

Quirinus Quirrell.

Harry had set out tonight, hoping to stop Snape from getting his hands on the Philosopher's Stone. As they had dealt with each of the challenges and neared closer to this final chamber, Harry had prepared himself for a confrontation with the potions master; ask him why he was working for Voldemort.

But the man standing in front of Harry wasn't Severus Snape. It was the meek, stuttering, Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor Quirinus Quirrell, wearing his usual purple turban and an unusual sadistic smile on his face.

_"__Flipendo!"_

Harry barely recognised Mark's voice shouting the incantation for the Knockback Jinx as his mind tried to make sense of the implications of this discovery. The bluish streak of the spell flew past him towards Quirrell, who sidestepped it in an instant, moving much faster than Harry had ever seen him do. Moments later, he snapped his fingers and ropes sprang out of thin air, wrapping themselves around the five of them. They all tumbled onto the floor like bowling pins, with Neville tripping himself on Hermione and knocking his head on the stone wall beside him.

"Well, well, Potter," Quirrell began, his face twisted in a sadistic smirk, "you brought along your nosy friends. I was wondering if you might show up tonight, you know. But to bring your friends down here to die —"

A cold trickle ran down Harry's spine as Quirrell let his sentence hang, but Harry still found himself unable to fathom Quirrell's presence here. His confusion must have shown on his face because Quirrell looked at him strangely.

"Surprised to see me then?"

"I—I thought—Snape —"

"Severus?" Quirrell asked in a crisp, amused tone with no hint of his usual stutter. "Yes, he does seem the suspicious type, doesn't he? So useful to have him draw attention away."

"But—but Snape was jinxing Harry's broom," Hermione interjected, and Harry could sense fear in her voice. "Unless—unless it was you," she finally whispered, all the parts of the puzzle finally fitting together.

"Indeed, Miss Granger," Quirrell chuckled. "You knocked me over on the way to set fire to Snape's cloak, who incidentally had been trying to save Potter using the counter-curse," he paused, his hands clasped behind his back. Looking at Hermione, he gave her a sneer. "It's a shame really, that a bright witch like you is a Mudblood."

"Don't you dare call her that!" Ron snarled, struggling even more against his ropes. Harry found his throat dry, unable to form even a single word as the gravity of the situation settled in like lead.

"Ah, the loyal Weasley. I admit, I wasn't expecting much from a pathetic little blood traitor like you. But I was impressed with the way you managed to subdue the troll on Halloween. Excellent use of the Levitation Charm, by the way." He paused before adding mockingly, "Five points to Gryffindor."

"You let the troll in?" Harry asked, still not fully believing Quirrell.

"Of course. I have a particular gift with trolls. You must have seen the one on your way here. A spell of my own making—a variation of the Imperious curse, designed to act on trolls." Stopping to look at a pocket watch, Quirrell continued, "I would like nothing more to do than go over my plan with you Potter, but sadly I do not have much time. Now, wait quietly. I need to examine this interesting mirror."

He turned around and Harry's gaze followed Quirrell's, and he realised what was standing at the back of the room.

"The Mirror of Erised," Hermione muttered in awe.

* * *

"The mirror is the key to getting the Stone," Quirrell pondered, talking to himself. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this…but he's in London. I'll be far away by the time he gets back. I made sure of that."

Mark watched as the turbaned professor paced in front of the large gold mirror. From the looks of it Harry, Ron, and Hermione were well acquainted with the mirror. The three of them had been onto the mystery from the start; he had not even known about the attempt on Harry's life.

But they hadn't suspected Quirrell. The Defence Professor had played his role almost perfectly. The nervous ticks, the almost comical stuttering, and the brilliant misdirection of any suspicions towards Professor Snape; the man had been planning this from the very beginning.

"You were there," Harry said, his voice trembling. "You were there, in Diagon Alley. On my birthday. You—you robbed the vault at Gringotts."

"Yes," Quirrell answered curtly. "I was late, however. Since you know of it, I presume it was that half-breed gamekeeper who took the stone from the vault."

Mark tried to digest this new information. He knew from Ron that the Stone had been at a vault in Gringotts, and that Hagrid had removed it on behest of Dumbledore when he and Harry had visited Diagon Alley. Realising just how out of depth he was here, Mark looked around and began thinking of an escape plan. It was now glaringly obvious that they should not have come down here so hastily. But what was done was done. Closing his eyes, Mark began thinking of a way to get out of this situation

"I saw you," he heard Harry speak, and Mark opened his eyes in surprise. "You and Snape in—in the forest that day —" Harry continued haltingly.

It took a moment for Mark to recognise the almost comical eagerness in Harry's voice, and his mind made the connection instantly.

'He's trying to stall him,' Mark realised. Whatever Dumbledore's protection was, it was clearly strong enough that a fully qualified and competent wizard like Quirrell was unable to break through. All they would need to do was stall him long enough for Dumbledore—who had hopefully realised the message from London was a distraction—to return to Hogwarts.

"Yes," Quirrell answered Harry, peering at the detailed engraving on the golden frame of the large mirror. "He was onto me by that time, —"

"Yeah, you're clearly not as clever as you thought," Mark said in a loud voice, hoping to provoke a reaction from the Professor. But Quirrell continued, ignoring him completely.

"— He had suspected me all along. Even tried to frighten me, as if he could—when I have the Dark Lord on my side…"

Realising that there was no way to stall the turbaned professor, Mark craned his neck to check on his friends. What he saw didn't fill him with much confidence. Neville seemed dazed, clearly suffering from a concussion when he knocked his head on the wall. Hermione was white as a sheet—Mark could make out her eyes quivering in fear. Ron, on the other hand, was fully alert; he was thrashing slightly on the ground as he struggled against the ropes binding him. Mark turned back to see Quirrell who was still busy with the mirror.

"I see the stone…I'm presenting it to my Lord…but _where_ is it?" Quirrell was clearly growing impatient.

"I—I don't understand," Harry began again, trying to draw Quirrell's attention away from the mirror. "Snape seems to hate me so much." He glanced at Mark and gave him a pleading look. Mark nodded in reply. If Quirrell got the stone, he wouldn't hesitate to kill the lot of them. It was a matter of life and death.

A fleeting image of his dad invaded his mind; the two of them seated around the dining table, taking the mickey out of Edwin.

It seemed like an eternity as the realisation hit him like a ton of bricks.

Edwin.

_Edwin's knife_. He had completely forgotten about it.

Slowly, Mark bent his legs back and began to reach for his ankle. It took him a few tries, but Mark's fingers finally brushed the hilt. Grasping it at the edge, he pulled the blade out. Ron must've seen him, as he calmed down and began looking at Mark expectedly. Meanwhile, Harry was trying to keep Quirrell distracted

"Oh, he does hate you," Quirrell said to Harry, "Didn't you know Snape was at Hogwarts with your father? From what I know of it, they loathed each other." Realising he was getting nowhere, Quirrell became irritated. As Mark began to saw through the bindings, he heard the desperation growing in Quirrell's voice.

"I don't understand. Is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

"But I heard you cry," Harry interrupted him again. Mark gave him a wink and a Harry responded with an almost imperceptible nod. "In the Defence classroom. I—I thought Snape was threatening you," he continued.

The words seemed to have a sobering effect on the turbaned professor, as he bowed his head and stood a little straighter.

"It is often—difficult for me to follow my master's instruction," he said quietly. "The Dark Lord is a great wizard while I —"

"Voldemort was _in_ that classroom?!" Mark exclaimed, momentarily stunned to continue cutting the ropes. This drew Quirrell's attention, and he looked at Mark with anger and amusement.

"You are brave, boy," he said hesitantly. "And foolish to take the Dark Lord's name." Turning back to the mirror, he continued.

"He is a great wizard. He taught me that there is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to see it. He has tasked me with this job, but I do not understand what I'm supposed to do?"

Mark finished cutting through the ropes around his torso and quickly slashed the ones around his knees. Deciding to stay prone, he crept slowly towards a now expectant Ron and started cutting through his ropes.

"Quickly," Ron whispered, eager to be free. Mark hushed him and bent to whisper in Ron's ear.

"When I say, grab everyone and run out of the room. I'll stab the bastard to slow him down and join you."

"But the Stone —" Ron tried to argue but Mark cut him off.

"Is obviously safer in the Mirror. Its Dumbledore's protection, so it should hold," said Mark. Finished with Ron's binding, he began to crawl over to Neville when a raspy voice spoke, sending a chill down his spine.

"Use the boy…Use Potter…"

Mark realised the voice was emanating from Quirrell himself, who turned to face Harry.

"Yes—Potter. Come here. Dumbledore must surely have instructed you on using the mirror". Snapping his fingers again, the ropes around Harry disappeared.

"No!" Hermione shrieked, having found her voice again.

"Quiet silly girl," Quirrell snapped, before drawing his wand and pointing it towards her. "Come now, Potter, you don't want your friends to get hurt do you."

'Shit, shit, shit,' Mark thought, as he began sawing through Ron's rope. His plan had to change.

* * *

Harry slowly got up from the floor. He didn't want to cooperate with Quirrell, but getting Hermione hurt wasn't an option. He purposefully slowed his movements to delay, his mind still wondering where he'd heard that raspy voice before. Quirrell, however, was getting impatient.

"Hurry up boy," he said, pointing towards the Mirror of Erised. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

'I have to lie,' Harry realised as he came in front of the mirror, his eyes closed in deliberation. There was no other option. He had to delay Quirrell—give Mark enough time to do whatever he was planning to do. Taking a deep breath—the funny smell coming from Quirrell's turban was as pronounced as ever—he steeled himself. Opening his eyes, Harry looked in the mirror.

As he had seen before during the Christmas break, Harry expected to see his family. It was the main reason he had decided to lie to Quirrell; there was no way he was sharing something so private to him. However, the sight that was before him wasn't his family.

Instead, it was just his own reflection—pale and scared, standing alone in the room. Then, his own reflection looked back at him and smiled oddly, before putting its hand into its pocket and pulling out a blood red stone. Harry stood dumbstruck as the reflection winked at him and put the stone back into its pocket, and somehow, Harry felt something drop into his own at the same time.

Somehow, he'd gotten the Philosopher's Stone.

"What do you see Potter?" Quirrell asked impatiently, breaking his reverie. Harry realised that he had to lie now; there was no way he could let Quirrell get his hands on the Stone. Remembering what Ron had seen in the mirror, Harry spoke up.

"I—I see myself as Head Boy. I—I've won the House Cup for Gryffindor."

"He lies! ... He lies!" came the screeching voice from Quirrell again.

Harry got a sinking feeling. Could he read his mind?

"Potter! Tell me the truth! What did you see —!" Quirrell was interrupted by the high voice again.

"Let me speak to him…face-to-face"

A spike of fear shot through Harry as he saw Quirrell tremble a reply to the voice.

"Master, but you're not strong enough —"

"I have strength enough for this…"

Harry suddenly realised who the voice belonged to—Quirrell had called it Master…

It was Voldemort.

He watched transfixed as the Defence Professor began unwrapping the turban on his head. Quirrell turned slowly when he was finished, and Harry heard someone gasp behind him.

On the back of Quirrell's bald head was another face; the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and snake-like slits for nostrils.

"Harry Potter…" it whispered. "See what I've become?" the face said. Harry's legs had turned to lead, and he couldn't seem to move.

"Mere shadow and vapour…. only able to take form in another' body. But then, there have always been those faithful like Quirrell here…" It gave a smirk, before continuing.

"Unicorn blood has managed to give me some strength… Indeed, you did see me in the forbidden forest that night. Once I have the Elixir, I will be able to take form again. Now… why don't you give me the stone in your pocket?"

Harry shook his head, still unable to speak.

"Come on, Potter. Don't be a fool. Hand over the stone or you friends —" Voldemort said, turning towards the bound children, and Harry followed his gaze.

—will die...?" the words trailed off in a tone of surprise. Harry saw his friends missing; they must have escaped.

Before he could think anything else, however, something came streaking past him and slammed into Quirrell, who gave a loud shriek of pain. It was Mark.

"_RUN!_" his friend exclaimed, trying to pry the wand from Quirrell's hand and Harry found his legs moving of their own accord. He tried to make his way towards the flaming door; he was halfway there when he tripped. His legs were bound once again.

Harry rolled on the floor to look back and was terrified by what he saw. Quirrell—his robes stained with blood—was standing over Mark and kicking him in the gut.

"You broke my wand, boy," Quirrell snarled as he kicked Mark again. Suddenly, the face on the back of Quirrell's head disappeared. Instead, his eyes glowed red—just like those of Voldemort.

Turning towards Harry, he approached like a snake hunting his prey. His thigh was bleeding from where Mark had stabbed him, but his face showed no recognition for the pain. Harry tried to crawl away as he neared, but he knew it was futile.

"Trying to escape Potter? Just like your parents. They died begging for mercy."

"LIAR!" Harry shouted.

"How touching." Voldemort/Quirrell smiled. "I always value bravery…Yes, boy, your parents were brave. I killed your father first … he put up a courageous fight. But your mother … your mother needn't have died. She died trying to keep you alive. Now, give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain," he snarled.

Harry's insides went cold. He had just learnt more about his parents' death than he had known before. Remembering their image in the mirror, he violently shook his head.

"NEVER!" he spat out.

Voldemort/Quirrell smirked, then snapped his fingers again.

"Crucio!" he said, almost casually.

Pain. Harry felt like his entire body was being stabbed by a thousand white-hot knives. It was pure, uninhibited pain. Harry screamed in agony, and tears flowed from his eyes.

Voldemort, however, just gave a cackling laugh—a laugh which Harry recognised from one of his dreams.

"I haven't had such fun in years! Nevertheless, time is running short, so I'll be taking the Stone."

He moved towards Harry's pocket, intending to grab the Stone. Harry, still trembling from the aftershock of the pain, tried to grab his arm to stop him. In the brief struggle, the Stone in Harry's pocket slipped out on the floor beside him. And then, to his surprise, it was Quirrell who cried out in pain.

"It burns! Master, I cannot hold him—my hand burns!" Quirrell's eyes showed fear before Voldemort took control again. Harry noticed the stone silently sliding across the floor towards a now conscious Mark.

"Looks like your mudblood mother is still protecting you," Voldemort spat as he examined his burnt hands. He didn't seem to have noticed the Stone's movement. "No worries, I'll just finish the job I started ten years ago." He raised his hand, towards Harry's chest, and Harry knew what was coming.

"Avada —"

"HEY SNAKE FACE!" Mark shouted from across the room, and both Harry and Voldemort turned to look at him. "Looking for this?" He held the red stone in his hand before starting to run towards the flame door.

Realising the Stone was getting out of his hand, Voldemort began to move towards Mark. Instinctively, Harry grabbed onto his foot, trying to touch bare skin.

Voldemort howled in pain, and conjured ropes around Mark again, who tripped. Kicking Harry's hand away, he hissed in anger.

"You'll both die for this."

Harry saw Voldemort raise his hand to curse Mark. His fellow teammate, however, drew his hand back and threw something towards the flame door. Harry's trained eye followed the red streak of the Stone as it hit the flames with the accuracy of a well-thrown Quaffle.

* * *

"NOOOO!" Voldemort screamed helplessly as the room shook with the force from the explosion.

Mark grinned. His aim had been true. On seeing Voldemort's face, however, the smile was replaced by a primal fear.

He had never seen fury like this before. A chill went down his spine as he realised just _why_ Voldemort had been feared by all wizards. The red eyes glistened with anger, and something happened that Mark had not expected—he felt a strong push on his mind.

Voldemort was attacking him with legilimency, most likely to inflict pain beyond measure.

'Well, that was a mistake,' Mark thought, grinning inwardly. He pulled Voldemort's mind into his own, much to the surprise of his attacker, and imagined it being sucked into a black hole.

"Impossible!" Voldemort whispered to himself before the mental defences of the Dark Lord were rammed into by a mere child. The attacks started going back and forth, the two legilimens battling in their minds.

It barely lasted a minute, but in that time, Mark was now on the verge of exhaustion. He didn't know if he could hold off Voldemort any longer. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

Mark saw Harry physically launch himself at Voldemort, knocking him down.

"_Aaaaarghhh,_" Mark heard Voldemort cry out in pain as Harry grabbed on to his face. Within moments, the cries tapered off into one of fear, and Mark recognised that the voice now belonged to Quirrell.

Suddenly the screams stopped as Harry was thrown backwards. A black mist emerged from the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor and lingered above the now limp body. Mark had never seen it before, but was sure of what it was; Voldemort.

"You have great potential, boy. You've thwarted my plans, and you will pay for it with your body."

The mist then approached Mark, who was rooted in shock at this declaration. It hovered above him, about to enter when Mark saw it recoil off of an invisible barrier.

"You shall not hurt one of my students, Tom."

The words were calm; the voice cold and powerful.

Albus Dumbledore had arrived.

"Dumbledore," Voldemort said in a frustrated voice. "You've finally arrived."

Dumbledore waved his wand around, and a large shimmering ball of light seemed to enclose the black mist. Voldemort, however, passed right through.

"You think _you_ can contain me? I, Lord Voldemort, the greatest sorcerer who ever lived?!" Voldemort scoffed before passing through one of the stone walls. "Until we meet again, Dumbledore."

Mark heard a loud pounding somewhere; after a moment, he realised it was the sound of his own heart thumping in fear. Once the coast was clear, Mark saw Dumbledore relax. The old wizard dropped his hand to his side before rushing towards Harry, who was still twitching slightly.

"Harry, are you alright?" Dumbledore asked in a kind voice. Harry sat up slowly, still trembling.

"I'm fine sir," he answered. "But—But the Stone. The Stone was destroyed, sir."

* * *

AN: This chapter has been reworked and elaborated. The narrative was a bit rushed before; it flows much better now.

The confrontation with Quirrell/Voldemort here is obviously different from canon, and it has large repercussions on the rest of the story. Mainly, this is the first time Voldemort and Mark interact, and the Dark Lord doesn't like to be challenged. It sets up the conflict between the two, and adds another dimension to the existing conflict between Harry and Voldemort.

Secondly, Ron and Hermione (and Neville) never actually see Voldemort until the events of OoTP in the canon. In a way, they are separated and sheltered from the real danger. Here, however, they have seen Voldemort face to face, and thus it will affect their character and personalities a lot.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review!


	20. The Flamels

**The Flamels**

* * *

7th June 1992

White.

Harry's eyes pricked as bright light invaded his senses. He could sense that he was awake, but it felt too surreal. He would have wondered where he was, but it was too exhausting to even think. Nevertheless, a small voice prickled inside him, urging him to remember what had happened. Harry got the feeling it was important; extremely important.

Summoning all the energy inside him, Harry tried to remember what had happened. As his eyes fluttered open, he saw a glint of gold in the corner of his eye.

_A Snitch? _Was it a quidditch match? He tried to reach for it, but his arms were too heavy. He could barely lift a finger.

'No,' Harry thought, his mind growing more coherent. Whatever he was trying to remember, the stakes had been higher. Much more higher.

As he felt an eternity pass by, a weird smell assaulted Harry's senses. He couldn't place it immediately, but he knew he recognised it anywhere. It was—clean.

_Hospital Wing. _Harry felt himself stir awake as his mind made that connection. But why was he here?

"Good Afternoon, Harry."

Harry heard the familiar voice coming from the Snitch. As his eyes focused, he realised it was a pair of golden half-rimmed glasses, perched on the nose of Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore. Another golden object surfaced from Harry's memories—the Mirror of Erised. As he recalled the last thing he remembered, Harry felt a surge of adrenaline rush through him. He jerked in a motion to get up, but Dumbledore placed a solid hand on his shoulder.

"Calm down, my boy," said Dumbledore. Harry turned to see his twinkling blue eyes, and Dumbledore continued. "The danger has passed, Harry. You're in the Hospital Wing now, and it is important that you get your rest."

The words had an immediate effect on Harry, and he felt his heart slowing down. Suddenly, Harry remembered what had happened to the Philosopher's Stone.

"Sir, the Stone, I—I tried to protect it, but —"

"It was destroyed," Professor Dumbledore finished for him. "Yes, you did tell me that when I arrived. It was just before you passed out. Gave me quite a scare actually." Harry stayed silent as the Headmaster gingerly placed Harry's glasses on his eyes. "As it turns out, you had suffered from magical exhaustion. Thankfully, none of the other injuries that you had suffered had any permanent effect."

Now being able to see much clearly, Harry looked around the room. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets. The bed was cordoned off with starch white curtains, and the table beside him was piled high with sweets and treats. He turned back towards Professor Dumbledore, who he noticed, looked more tired than usual.

"How—How long have I been here, sir?" he asked. Dumbledore gave an audible sigh before replying.

"Three days. Three very long days. I daresay your friends will be most relieved to hear that you have come around."

"Are they—Ron, and Hermione and —" Dumbledore must've sensed his worry, and he gave Harry a reassuring smile.

"Yes, they are alright," he said. "Thanks to Mr Smith's quick thinking, Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, and Ms Granger were able to escape. Mr Weasley volunteered to stay by the trap door and inform me of the situation when I arrived."

A feeling of dread welled inside Harry as he felt his stomach drop.

"What about Mark?" he asked hesitantly. Professor Dumbledore gave another long sigh before replying.

"He is fine now," said Dumbledore, "but he had been badly injured as well. His physical injuries were more extensive than your own, but thankfully, he didn't suffer from any magical exhaustion. I believe he is currently asleep, a few beds over."

Harry looked over in the direction that the Headmaster had pointed and was disappointed to see the starched curtain staring back at him.

"Do not worry Harry," Professor Dumbledore said reassuringly. "You and your friends are all safe and sound. That, I believe, is the most important thing."

"But sir, what about your friend—Nicolas Flamel …" Harry stammered out guiltily.

"Oh, you know about Nicolas, then?" Dumbledore sounded a bit amused. "It seems you did the thing properly, didn't you?" Chucking he continued. "Well, Nicolas, his wife, and I had a little chat —"

A small chime interrupted the Headmaster, and Harry saw him fish out a small gold pocket watch. Professor Dumbledore peered at it over his glasses before a small smile graced his face.

"Well actually, it's better that you hear about it directly from them. They've arrived in the castle. I'll be back shortly."

Harry widened his eyes in horror as Professor Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder and left. They were coming here? What would they think? Surely, they would be disappointed in him. As the thoughts swirled in his head, Harry felt his stomach churn; it turned to panic as he heard footsteps approaching his bed. It dissipated immediately when the new arrivals turned out to be his friends.

"Harry, you're awake!" Hermione cried out as she hugged him. Over her shoulder, Harry spotted Ron and Neville sporting identical grins. Once Hermione stepped back, Ron offered his hand.

"How are you feeling, mate?"

Although he was smiling, Harry noticed that Ron's voice was carrying a hint of worry quite unlike him. Realising the sentiment, Harry just nodded in reply.

"Oh, we were so worried, Harry," Hermione whispered, her eyes now wide in fear. ". I—I still can't believe that it was Quirrell and that he - he had - thing on his head. I—I thought he was going to kill us."

"He was," Neville added softly, his eyes cast down on the floor. Harry saw that the three of them were reliving the events of that night. A surge of guilt hit him, and he shook his head sadly.

"I shouldn't have asked you guys to come in with me. I'm sorry. It—It was too dangerous …"

Harry had been expecting an angry retort; however, he hadn't expected it to come from Neville, who replied in a calm and stern voice.

"In case you do not remember Harry, you _didn't_ ask us. We offered. And I do not think that anyone here regrets coming with you down through that trapdoor."

Harry tried to think of a suitable reply, but Hermione interrupted his thoughts.

"And anyway, how were you planning on crossing the chessboard without Ron's help?" Hermione argued.

Ron suddenly found the stone ceiling of the Hospital wing interesting, while Neville began to cough softly. Still convinced of his own guilt, Harry stared at Hermione.

"But what good did any of it do? The Stone was destroyed, wasn't it? What will Mr Flamel say?"

"He would say that he is extremely impressed—and frankly surprised at the skills and courage of the young witches and wizards who have done him a great service." came a rather crisp voice from behind the curtains, which opened to reveal the newcomers.

Standing with Professor Dumbledore was a couple who looked like they were in their early sixties. The man was dressed in a prim grey robe, while the lady was dressed in deep scarlet ones.

It was Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel

* * *

Albus took a step back as Nicholas and Perenelle introduced themselves to the children. Over the years, he had gotten used to the look of awe that young—and sometimes old—wizards and witches got on them when interacting with him personally. But to see them meet the Flamels—well that was a treat in itself.

The four children were far more composed than others their age. Then again, a meeting with Voldemort was something that would force maturity on even the wisest of men. Albus felt deep sorrow well inside him as he looked over the faces of the children. He could only hope that their innocence wasn't completely lost yet.

Miss Granger was beaming nervously; Albus chuckled inwardly as he recalled his own self meeting Nicholas for the first time. Mr Weasley and Mr Longbottom were awkwardly silent, their hands clasped behind their back to prevent any accidental embarrassment. However, Albus observed that Harry still had guilt etched all over his face.

"Dear children," Nicholas said, the introductions now finished, "We wish to sincerely thank you." On seeing the looks on the children's faces, he added, "Yes, all of you. You have shown tremendous fibre in your efforts to ensure that our property didn't fall into the wrong hands —"

He turned towards Albus before giving him a pointed look.

"—although I do wish it hadn't come to it."

Albus winced inwardly. He remembered the sour conversation that had taken place when he had informed the Flamel of the events. Nicholas had been convinced that it was all Albus' convoluted plan to destroy the Stone; it was only when Albus revealed Voldemort's involvement that Nicholas had paled and stopped the accusations.

Albus' reverie was broken when he heard Harry stutter out an apology.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't wish for the stone to —"

"Oh, Mr Potter, didn't you listen?" Perenelle interrupted. "We're _proud_ of you. You went above and beyond what was expected of an eleven-year-old wizard. It was more important that the Stone not fall into the hands of dark forces, and you did just that."

"But sir, won't—won't you die?"

Both Nicholas and Perenelle shared a soft smile—one that Albus had seen on many occasions—before replying.

"Mr Potter, the elixir acts in essence to stop the ageing of the body. Even without the elixir, we will live for year or two, and we have enough elixir stored for a few more."

Albus saw the children's faces mixed with awe and sadness. Harry's face, in particular, was still racked with guilt.

"To one as young as you," Perenelle continued, her eyes scanning over the four children, "death may seem incredible. But for Nicolas and I—well, we've been alive for a long time." After a pause, she added, "A very, _very_, long time."

There was a long silence, in which the four Gryffindor students digested this wisdom. It was broken by a distant bell signalling lunch.

"Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom, Ms Granger," Albus said, "I believe it is time for you to have your lunch in the great hall. I'm sure Mr Potter would like you to visit later." The three students nodded silently and left. Once they had exited the Hospital wing, Nicholas turned to Albus.

"Albus, I think we should now convey our thanks to the fifth member of Mr Potters party."

"Of course, Nicholas." Albus began to escort them towards the bed where young Mark Smith was currently resting. Perenelle must've sensed his hesitation to leave Harry, and she addressed him in a low voice.

"We can find our way, dear Albus, if you wish to stay here."

Albus smiled at her thankfully.

"That is most grateful of you," he said, before giving an audible sigh. "I believe Mr Potter still has a few private questions on his mind, and I think I should make myself available to answer them."

"Of course, Albus. We understand," she replied, and Albus turned back towards Harry. He took a few steps before she interrupted him again.

"Albus."

He turned around to see Perenelle giving him a searching look.

"Do remember that he is only a child."

Albus gave her a small nod in reply before heading continuing onwards. Of course he knew Harry was still a child. But that hadn't stopped fate from setting him on a path that even the strongest wizards would hesitate to walk on. No, fate had not been kind to Harry at all.

As he sat down beside Harry, Albus observed the young wizard in front of him. He seemed conflicted about something, and Albus decided to ease his mind.

"What is it, my boy?"

Harry took a moment before answering. It was clear that there was a lot on his mind.

"Can I ask you a question, sir?" he asked. "I mean another question," he added quickly.

Albus chuckled inwardly as he remembered their meeting during the Christmas break.

"Of course," he replied. "I'm here for precisely that reason. I shall endeavour to answer all your questions—unless I have a very good reason not to. I hope you forgive me for it." Seeing the pensive look on Harry's face, Albus decided to offer a reprieve. "But I promise I will not lie."

Harry gave him a serious nod and stared at the starch white blanket on his feet.

"I've been thinking … even though the Stone is gone, Vol-, sorry, You-Know-Who —"

"You should call him Voldemort, Harry," Albus interrupted. "Fearing a name only increases the fear of the thing itself."

"Voldemort. He—he'll try to come back, won't he? I mean—I mean he's still out there —"

"Yes, he is." Albus laced his fingers as he considered his answer carefully.

"He will try to come back. Not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. In time, he might find another body to share. But as you saw, he doesn't care for his followers any more than his enemies; he left Quirinus to die."

Albus observed as Harry dealt with the obvious fear swirling inside of him. He decided to offer the boy—and himself—some hope.

"Do not worry, Harry. As long as there is someone prepared to fight what seems to be a losing battle—they may delay him as you did. And if he is delayed again and again, he may not ever return to power." Harry nodded silently as Albus saw him give the words some consideration.

"Sir," he spoke after a moment. "Quirrell. He—he burnt himself when he tried to touch me." Albus saw the pain and guilt rise behind the young face before Harry continued, now speaking very softly. "I—I burned him when I touched his face."

"You are not responsible for his death Harry," Albus replied at once, trying to stub the thought before it took hold in Harry's mind. "Quirinus Quirrell, in his greed for power, shared his soul with Voldemort. In doing that, he sealed his own fate."

He saw that the young man in front of him was still unconvinced.

"I repeat Harry—you are not responsible for his death," Albus said before turning back to Harry's query.

"To answer your question, my boy, the reason Quirrell couldn't touch you is that you have been protected by a form of magic stronger than any other." Albus took a pause as he looked at Harry searchingly. "Love. More precisely, your mother's love for you. She sacrificed herself for you, Harry. If there is one thing Voldemort can never fathom, it is love. He didn't realise that a love as powerful as your mother's leaves its own mark."

"No, not your scar. Not a visible sign, but a protection that thrives within you—one which helped you survive the killing curse and one which is still protecting you. For someone so full of hate, it is agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, and Albus realised the poor boy had misted his eyes. Deciding against comforting him directly, Albus turned to look out the window and give Harry some privacy.

It was some time before the sniffs subsided, and Albus noticed Harry rubbing his eyes over his sleeve.

"Sir," Harry said, and Albus turned back to look at him.

"Voldemort—he said—he said that the only reason my mother—died was because she tried to stop him from killing me." Dread filled inside Albus as he closed his eyes in anticipation of the one question he did not wish to answer. "Why did he want to kill me in the first place?"

A memory surfaced—a cold, rainy evening spent in his brother's pub. The night which he wished had never happened. Albus still remembered the taste of the cold butterbeer in his mouth, and how it had tasted like ash afterwards. Opening his eyes, he remembered Perenelle's words once again, and the smallest doubt in his mind fizzled away.

"I fear, my boy, that this is a thing I cannot tell you," Albus finally answered. "Not today. Not for some time." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "You will know, one day. When you are older —"

"But —"

"Harry. I know that at your age you hate to hear that very statement. But _trust_ me. When you are ready, you will know."

_You will have to_, Albus thought to himself as he hoped that moment would be many years away. If there was one thing Harry Potter deserved, it was some semblance of innocent youth.

"Okay, Professor," Harry finally replied, and Albus could make out that the grudging acceptance in his voice. Giving Harry a small smile, Albus turned to check on the Flamels.

"I wonder what is taking them so long," he remarked casually. This seemed to remind Harry of their presence, and his guilt resurfaced.

"I'm sorry, sir." Albus saw that Harry was picking on the loose threads on his sleeves. "I—I wish I could've saved the Stone."

Albus stared at Harry as he considered his thoughts before deciding to share them with Harry; the boy had earned it.

"Personally, Harry, I'm not that disturbed with the loss of the Stone, and I think the Flamels agree with me—at least in principle."

Seeing the incredible look on Harry's face, Albus gave him a small smile before continuing.

"Although it was an incredible artefact, it was too powerful—a needless temptation for those weak in spirit."

* * *

Mark stared at his boots—kept near the chair beside him—as he heard the footsteps approach his bed. He heard them speak with Headmaster Dumbledore, who seemed to walk back to Harry's bed.

Mark was glad that Harry was conscious now. He had not really understood what Madam Pomfrey had meant by magical exhaustion—other than the obvious. The events of that night kept repeating themselves in his mind, and Mark couldn't forget the look Voldemort had given him before Dumbledore had arrived.

Deciding to make himself presentable before the Flamels entered, Mark pushed himself up on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. He was just in time as the curtains opened to reveal the Flamels.

"Hello, sir. Ma'am." They both smiled in response; they looked much younger than he had anticipated.

"Good afternoon, Mr Smith," Mr Flamel said, "I'm glad that you are awake. How are you feeling, young man?"

"Much better, sir."

"You've had quite the adventure," he remarked.

"Nothing I wish to repeat, sir," Mark clarified.

"That is wise of you," Madam Flamel said, before taking a brief pause. "You showed great courage, Mr Smith. We thank you."

"The stone —"

"Albus told us what happened, Mr Smith," Mr Flamel interrupted. "You saved the life of your friend and prevented the Dark Lord from getting his hands on the Stone. Your actions, young man, were perfectly acceptable."

"What about you?"

"Well, as we told Mr Potter, we do have some elixir left—a couple of years to settle everything." Mr Flamel answered reassuringly. "After all, immortality had never been our primary concern. We knew we were delaying the inevitable, and after six centuries we were —" he paused, before correcting himself, "— _are_ prepared for it."

Doubts swirled in Mark's mind as he weighed his thoughts. He decided he needed more information.

"How does it work?" he asked. "The Elixir, I mean."

Both the Flamels gave him a kind look before Madam Flamel decided to explain.

"It kept us from ageing," she said. "The Stone—it was a mysterious artefact, even for us. That was why we kept it, actually. To spend our time studying it more thoroughly."

"Does the Elixir have healing properties?" asked Mark. "Can it cure diseases?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mr Flamel replied, shuffling a bit on his feet. "We did manage to discover a cure for dragon pox, for example."

"Would it work—would it work with normal—non-magical humans?"

Mr Flamel gave him an odd look. Madam Flamel, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes in curiosity.

"As far as we can tell, the magic in the elixir doesn't react kindly to non-magical humans," she finally said. "Most potions with active components—as you'll learn when you're older—require the subject to have magic in their system. Otherwise, it burns through the digestive tract."

She took a pensive pause as she crossed her arms.

"Why did you ask that question, Mr Smith?"

Mark closed his eyes as he finally came to a decision. Opening them, he gleaned Madam Flamel as delicately as he could—it was important for him to know if he could trust them.

"My dad," Mark said once he was finished, "he's non-magical. He has leukaemia. I was wondering if there was a magical cure."

A look of understanding—and kindness—appeared in Madam Flamel's eyes.

"That is a terrible affliction," she said. "Unfortunately, there hasn't been a cure found for it yet, even in the magical world."

Mark found himself lost in his thoughts once more, and Mr Flamel looked at him worriedly.

"Mr Smith, is something the matter?" he finally asked.

Mark looked at them both as he clenched his jaw, trying to work up the courage to say what he wished to say.

"What if we can find out?" he said, before swallowing the lump in his throat. "What if the Stone can be used to find a cure?"

Both the Flamels had confused looks on their faces. Before they could ask him any questions, Mark slowly slid out of his bed and walked towards the chair. He bent down—slowly, so as to avoid the pain—and picked up his left boot before returning to the bed.

"He didn't …" Madam Flamel whispered; she seemed to have realised what Mark had done. Mr Flamel still looked confused—that was until Mark put his hand inside the boot and fished out a blood-red stone. Turning it once in his hand he handed it to Madam Flamel; Mr Flamel looked gobsmacked.

"How?" he managed to finally splutter out. Mark realised that he owed them an explanation, and he took a deep breath before proceeding.

"Once I found out that—that it was the Stone that was —" Mark began, unable to correctly convey his thoughts. He took another pause before continuing.

"I couldn't destroy it," he said. "But Harry—Voldemort was after the Stone and Harry was in danger, so I needed for Voldemort to think that I had destroyed the stone." Mark found his words flowing more smoothly now. "Once I saw the stone on the floor, I summoned it to myself. But I needed to distract Voldemort, so I transfigured a chocolate frog in my pocket into a red stone and aimed it at the flame door."

A long silence followed, and Mark grew uncomfortable. Mr Flamel finally broke the silence.

"I cannot believe it," he said. "Albus told us —"

"I didn't tell him," Mark interrupted. "I didn't tell anyone."

"You wanted to try and cure your father," Madam Flamel said softly. Mark nodded slowly.

"On seeing you—I couldn't decide whether to keep it or not. I—I couldn't knowingly —"

"I understand, Mr Smith," she said. "Trust me, I _do_ understand. I think it's best if everyone believes the Stone to be destroyed," Madam Flamel finished with a brief glance at her husband. Mr Flamel nodded his assent; however, he still seemed to be in shock.

"The Dark Lord," he whispered, more to himself, "he's an accomplished Legilimens. How could a mere child —"

Madam Flamel interrupted him as her eyes sparkled with realisation. She looked Mark in the eyes.

"That's because you're a Natural Legilimens, aren't you?"

Now it was Mark's turn to be dumbstruck. He hadn't expected the Flamels to find this out about him.

"How were you planning to do it?" she asked, finally pocketing the Stone. "Finding a cure—what made you think you could do it?"

"Why not?" Mark answered defensively. "There are bound to be some books on alchemy here—plus I could have the stone examined by non-magical means. Spectrography, chemical tests. Maybe I would have found something—something new."

Realising that he sounded too arrogant, Mark took a deep breath to calm himself.

"I didn't—I didn't plan to take the stone," he tried to explain. "I just didn't want to miss out on the opportunity." Looking around he tried to think of something else to say. "I mean, for my purpose, having the elixir would have been more important than the Stone. I imagine making the elixir isn't as simple as boiling the stone in water," Mark finished with a nervous smile. Both the Flamels gave him a small nod in reply, their eyes narrowed at him in curiosity.

"What would you have done if you had the Elixir?"

"Study it, I guess," he answered. "Try and understand its composition. Understand what makes it stop ageing. Isolate the active compounds." Taking a brief pause, he continued, "I think it promotes cellular regeneration, so its effects on the blood cells would be most important to know —"

"You wished to see how it would react with _blood_?" Mr Flamel interrupted in a stern voice. "Blood magic is a very Dark Magic, Mr Smith and not to be trifled with —"

"No, no—you misunderstand. I meant to try and understand the effects if taken intravenously," Mark said, "You know, injecting it into the bloodstream. That way, it isn't subjected to the digestive tract, and it might react differently."

It was a long while before anyone broke the silence; Mark looked at the two Flamels—their old faces had childlike smiles as they seemed to be lost in thought.

"Brilliant," Madam Flamel finally whispered, before turning to look at her husband. "Why didn't we ever consider it before?"

"I heard about Muggle healers trying it out a few decades ago," Mr Flamel recalled, "but the idea seemed preposterous back then," he finished sheepishly.

'More like a century ago,' thought Mark privately. The magical world seemed to be horribly out of date with regards to the non-magical one.

"They use it all the time now," he said aloud, "in non-magical medicine. All I've seen here are potions."

Another silence followed Mark's statement, and he saw the Flamels hold a silent conversation. Once they were done, Mr Flamel turned to look at Mark, an odd expression on his face.

"Mr Smith," he said. "It seems we have something more to ask of you."

Mark nodded slowly as he tried to figure out what more the Flamels wanted of him.

"Actually, it is an offer." Madam Flamel brushed a hand over her robe. "Since you so clearly have a plan to proceed along with your idea, we wish to offer a chance to actually do it."

"You're offering me a chance to work with you?" Mark asked disbelievingly. There was no way—after all, why would they?

"Indeed," Madam Flamel replied before Mark could say anything else. "I know what you're thinking. You might be young, but there is a certain—creativity in you that we haven't seen in a long time. You're clearly the inventive sort, and most importantly, you do not have a bias towards the magical world—something that we seem to have a problem with."

"Indeed. It is foolish to dismiss something without reason." Mr Flamel nodded in agreement. "So, young man—are you willing to work with us?"

"Yes!" Mark answered, his mind racing away with the implications of this offer. He saw Madam Flamel give him a soft smile as she wordlessly extended her arm towards her husband—he saw him fish a small crystal flask from his grey robes and hand it over to her.

"Here is your first sample then. Keep us informed with your progress," she said, offering the flask to Mark. "Keep in mind, however, that your studies should not be affected because of this."

Mark nodded silently as he stared at the crystal flask—it was filled with a pearly rose liquid. He took it before placing it gingerly on the table beside him. He was lost in his thoughts when Madam Flamel interrupted his reverie.

"You know," she said, "your father is a lucky man to have you as a son."

The dam broke as the emotions he'd been trying to keep in check were let loose. Mark found his eyes prickle with tears as he moved swiftly towards the kind old witch in front of him and gave her a tight hug.

"Thank you."

* * *

AN: This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated. The entire POV with Dumbledore is an addition; one I felt was missing in the old version. These changes have transformed this chapter from one of the shortest to one of the longest.

As we see, the Philosopher's Stone is still around. It (and the Elixir) are important in the story, especially to the plot of Book One.

Fun fact: Mark saving the Stone is the first plot point that I had envisioned while developing this story.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Feedback is welcome. Please read and review!


	21. End of a year

**End of a Year**

* * *

13th June 1992

Harry shuffled silently on his way to the Great Hall for the End-of-Year feast, the chatter of the students around him mixing into an incomprehensible din. He winced slightly as a small pain shot up from his stomach; a result of his repeated requests to be released early from the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomphrey had assured him that although it would take some time, he would heal completely. As Harry's gaze turned towards Ron, he saw that his friend was busy chatting animatedly with Seamus about the Quidditch League.

Harry shook his head absently. Although he loved Quidditch, Harry often had no idea about anything when Ron would start telling him about the Quidditch League and his favourite team, the Chudley Cannons—which Harry found out too late had a reputation for always being at the bottom.

It was times like these that Harry still felt separate from the Wizarding world. Despite the fact that he had found Hogwarts to be a comforting and accommodating place for him, Harry had no idea about Wizarding culture and etiquettes. Despite being the supposed hero of this world, he was still an outsider for all purposes.

But Harry was glad for his friends. They had made this whole year—the good and the never-want-to-repeat-again bad—totally worth it. Even his exams, which he hadn't had any confidence in, had gone well. Surprisingly, he had been the top of the class with Mark—who was way more brilliant than him—in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and in the top ten in everything else except Potions.

Potions. Harry remembered the end of the year exams, with Snape prowling around the classroom intimidating everyone as they tried to prepare a Forgetfulness Potion. The greasy bat had spent more time looking over Harry's shoulder than the rest of the class combined, hoping to catch him making a mistake. But Harry managed to brew an acceptable potion, and so he had passed.

The entirety of this year, Harry had wondered just why Snape was so hell-bent to pick on him. That was until Quirrell and then Professor Dumbledore provided him with the answer. The fact that Severus Snape and James Potter had been enemies at school had been a shock to Harry. Professor Dumbledore had even compared it to Harry's own feud with Draco Malfoy as an example. Given that, it was no wonder that a mean bully like Snape treated Harry horribly. From what people had said, Harry even looked like his father.

As Harry stepped inside the Great Hall, his sight was filled with green and silver; the enormous room was fully decorated with silk banners in the Slytherin colours in celebration of Slytherin having the highest House points total and thus winning the House Cup. While everyone at the Slytherin table was full of raucous joy, Harry found himself return to gloom as he was reminded again of the hundred-and-fifty points he had lost Gryffindor.

Snape's biased attitude over the course of the entire year was something the Gryffindors always had to fight against. But his apparent hatred of Harry had only added fuel to the fire. In addition, despite winning at Quidditch against Slytherin, they had lost the recent match against Ravenclaw as Harry had been stuck in the Hospital Wing. So, Harry wasn't exactly wrong to think that their current position at the bottom of the points tally was, to a large fault, his fault.

Thankfully, most of the older students who had been angry at Harry before seemed to have forgotten about that incident. No one seemed to be particularly angry at him, but somehow that made Harry feel even more guilty about the whole issue; especially since his last conversation with Professor Dumbledore.

There was no denying that he had a tendency to act rashly. Even though he had known—or rather, suspected—that Voldemort was going for the Stone, Harry had rushed in without a plan. It had been sheer luck that none of his friends had died; sitting there, in the Hospital Bed, Harry had spent hours agonising over the very real threat that they all had managed to escape. And, to top it all, he hadn't even managed to save the Stone.

Any further musings in Harry's mind were interrupted with the arrival of Professor Dumbledore in the Great Hall. His mind racked with guilt, Harry watched as the chattering of the students came to a halt.

"Welcome, my dear students," Professor Dumbledore spread his hands wide, his cheerful vibe filling the room. "Another year gone. And what a wonderful year it has been!" Looking at the students now rapt with attention, he continued. "I hope we all were successful in teaching you something new, be it magic or not. After all, that is the true essence of learning."

A polite applause filled the Great Hall, and Harry found himself joining in despite his sour mood. Professor Dumbledore beamed at them silently before he raised his goblet, everyone else quickly following suit.

"With the end of this year upon us, we now say our goodbye to our oldest students." Harry turned along with everyone to face the seventh-year students sitting at the nearer end of all the tables. "May their endeavours be fruitful, and they encounter prosperity on whichever path that they choose!"

A hearty applause reverberated in the Great Hall, with even the rest of the Professors joining in; Harry could swear he saw a happy tear in Professor McGonagall's eyes. Looking at the seventh-year students, Harry wondered if he would ever become as capable as them. They seemed so—grown up. It was what he would look like when it was his turn to leave Hogwarts; something he wasn't really looking forward to.

As the applause died down, Harry noticed Professor Dumbledore adorn a business-like visage. Taking a small sip from his goblet, he turned to the students.

"Next, we have the House Cup which needs awarding. Right now, the points stand thus," he said before looking down at a piece of parchment in his hand. "In fourth place, Gryffindor, with eight hundred and forty-seven points."

A polite applause followed from the Gryffindor table; Harry could have sworn he heard a snigger all the way over from the Slytherins. Professor Dumbledore, unperturbed, continued.

"In third place, Hufflepuff, with nine hundred and twenty-one points." Another polite applause followed from the Hufflepuffs, but Professor Sprout at the Head table looked sour.

"In second place, Ravenclaw, with nine hundred and eighty-three points," Professor Dumbledore continued, to an enthusiastic applause from the Ravenclaw table. "And finally, Slytherin, with one thousand one hundred and forty-two points."

To Harry's surprise, the Slytherin table did not break out in cheers. In fact, none of the Slytherins clapped; no one uttered a single word. Instead, all of them began to bang their goblets in unison. Harry felt sick as the sound of the goblets banging on the wood filled his ears; seeing the feral expression on Draco Malfoy's face just added to the discomfort.

Harry saw that the other Gryffindors didn't seem to be any better. The usually cheerful Fred and George Weasley were uncharacteristically reserved. Unable to look at the gloomy faces, Harry's gaze fell on the Head table, where another surprise greeted him. Instead of having a smug grin on his face, Snape seemed to be scowling at his plate. Before Harry could think of any reason for his sour mood, Professor Dumbledore spoke up again.

"Yes, Yes. Well done, Slytherin." He waited for the din to subside, and Harry got a feeling that Professor Dumbledore wasn't done yet.

"However, there are recent events that have yet to be taken into account."

The entire room went silent at this; Harry knew at once that this was something unusual.

"First—to Mr Ronald Weasley …"

Everyone turned to search for the student in question, and the gangly, red-headed boy beside Harry felt a million eyes examine him.

".. for what can be considered the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has ever seen, I must award Gryffindor House fifty points."

Thunderous applause followed not just from the Gryffindor table, but also from the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables; Harry realised after a moment that he too was clapping as loudly as possible. Looking at the Head table, Harry could see Professor McGonagall clapping away with a beaming smile full of pride. It took a few moments before the applause dwindled, but Professor Dumbledore wasn't finished yet.

"Second—to Miss Hermione Granger—for the use of brilliant deduction skills and the use of logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."

The Gryffindors cheered were the loudest yet, with some of the students banging their fists on the table. Harry saw that Hermione had buried her face in her arms. The energy at their table was beyond anything, and Harry quickly calculated that they were now second in the ranking.

"Next—to Mr Neville Longbottom… for excellent observational skills and unflinching loyalty, I award Gryffindor fifty points."

Another round of cheering and celebrating followed; Neville, who had been ridiculed all year was now being hugged and praised by everyone around him. It took a long time for the cheers to die down this time.

"Finally—to Mr Harry Potter and Mr Mark Smith…" Harry quickly found his nerves on edge, especially since Professor Dumbledore's voice was now heavy and serious.

"… for pure nerve, outstanding courage, and bravery worthy of Godric Gryffindor himself, I award them each seventy-five points."

The hall exploded. The cheering and banging were coming from every place except the Slytherins, who had now lost their continued streak of winning the House Cup. At the Gryffindor Table, however, Harry found himself being mobbed by everyone around him. He was given pats, thumps, hugs, and handshakes, with Fred and George even messing up his untameable hair. The sheer joy was infectious, and it took almost a minute before Professor Dumbledore could speak again.

"I think we need a little change of decoration," he remarked before clapping his hands at once. A loud cheer went up again as the green and silver all around them transformed into scarlet and gold. The large banner of the Slytherin serpent behind the head table was instantly replaced by a golden roaring lion, and Harry saw Snape wear an unpleasant and forced smile on his face as he shook Professor McGonagall's hand, who was now smirking smugly.

"Now that's done, lets tuck in." As soon as he said those words, the feast appeared on the table. Harry looked at the various platters full of delicious foods and felt convinced that it looked grander than the opening feast in September. Or perhaps it was just his joy colouring his perception.

As he started to pile the food onto his plate, Harry looked around at his friends. Ron, sitting beside him, had already started on his steak and kidney pie as he was busy chatting with Fred across the table while Hermione was beaming as she was talking animatedly with a fifth-year girl. Neville, sitting on the other side was laughing along with George; Mark, however, had his eyes narrowed and his face scrunched in concentration. But before Harry could comment on it, Mark suddenly gave a short burst of laughter and turned his attention to the food.

Confused at this, Harry glanced around and saw that the rest of his friends had noticed Mark's odd behaviour. Ron, his mouth half full, voiced the question.

"Wha's the ma'der?"

"Nothing," Mark said dismissively. On seeing the look on everyone's faces, he relented.

"It's just that we won the House cup thanks to Ron here," he said, a smirk evident on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we won by five points, right?" Seeing the confused nods on everyone's faces, he continued; Harry could see the boy barely able to contain his laughter.

"You remember who awarded Ron five points for his levitation charm?"

Harry remembered before any of the others did, the absurdity of the situation causing him to splutter out the pumpkin juice back in his goblet.

They had won thanks to Quirrell.

* * *

20th June 1992

Mark gave a long sigh as the scenery sped by the window of his compartment. His head resting on the cold glass, Mark recalled the speed with which the past two weeks at Hogwarts had flown by.

Once he had been discharged from the Hospital Wing, Mark had spent all his free time inside the main Hogwarts Library or the simulated Restricted Section inside the Come and Go room. Ever since the Flamels offered him the opportunity to work with them, all he could really think of was trying to catch up to the level of knowledge that would be required of him to even think of beginning this endeavour. He had read all he could in the first two days before realising that it was much more practical to make copies of all the material here and read them at home during the holidays.

From that moment on, Mark had become a literal copy machine; his wand performing the same charm repeatedly as pages and pages of books on alchemy, potions, and magical healing got transferred onto an ever-growing stack of parchment. At one point, Mark went and bought any spare parchment that the other students had not managed to put to use; a fourth-year Gryffindor named Booth even gave him two full rolls for free.

With all of this on his summer reading list along with the summer homework that the teachers had assigned in the last week, Mark knew his summer break was packed. But he wasn't complaining. If there was even a small chance that he could cure his dad, he was willing to spend every ounce of his free time trying to search for it.

In all of this craziness, Mark had completely forgotten about the exams that had given a couple of weeks before. The results had come in during the past week, and Mark was relieved to see that he had passed Herbology, thanks to Neville and his green thumb. If he was being honest, Mark thought to himself, Neville's knowledge of Herbology had saved his life—and of everyone else's—that night.

Mark turned to look at the boy in question, who was currently napping peacefully on the seat in front of him. It was odd that although he had come so close to death that night, Mark found himself only able to look back at the memory with a sense of joy. Somehow, for Mark, it was not a time when he had had a brush with death, but rather the moment an opportunity had arrived to save his dad's life. And he promised himself to make the most of it.

As he turned back to look out the window, Mark smiled as he remembered the results for the rest of his subjects. Hermione was back to scowling at him since he had tied with her for first place in both Transfiguration and Charms, and with Harry in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Thankfully, Professor Snape didn't seem to reserve the same attitude that he had for Harry, and Mark was pleasantly surprised at being in the top five of the class in Potions. He'd passed in everything else, and hadn't bothered any further than that.

Seeing that they had the entire summer ahead of them, Mark had insisted upon his friends that they take his instruments home to practice regularly on their own. Fred and George had agreed quite easily, but Neville was the most hesitant due to his Grandmother. It was only when the three of them suggested that they would write to Augusta Longbottom that Neville folded and agreed.

Mark had actually been taken aback when the Twins invited him to come over to their house for a week or two during the summers. It took a moment before Mark politely declined, not wanting to spend any further time away from his dad, but he was touched with their warmth. It felt good to have such friends.

Any further thoughts were interrupted as Mark felt the train pull in at Platform Nine-and-three-quarters. It was a long time as Mark bid farewell to all the new friends and acquaintances he had made at Hogwarts, everyone promising to write to each other over the summers. Even some of the older Gryffindors gave him a friendly handshake or pat on the back as he passed them by; it seemed the events of the end-of-year feast had helped him become more recognisable.

Finally, when he was all done, Mark briskly set towards the barrier. He was eager to see his dad; millions of thoughts swirled in his mind as he wondered whether his dad's treatments were going positively or not. Once he felt the cool air of Kings Cross on his cheeks as he crossed the barrier, Mark looked around to search for his dad. It took a moment before Mark noticed him leaning nondescript on a stone column a few feet away, a copy of the Times in his hand artfully covering his face.

'Old habits die hard,' thought Mark as he made his way towards his dad, who now had a brilliant smile on his face.

"There's my boy." His dad swept Mark up in a tight bear hug. Clapping him at his shoulders, Mark saw his dad examine him with an odd look.

"You've gotten heavier."

"Is that the first thing you say to your son who's been away for five months?"

"Well, it is the truth. What are they feeding you lot at the school?" his Dad asked him suspiciously. Mark tried to shrug it off as nonchalantly as possible.

"Well, I did manage to find the school kitchens with the help of Fred and George," he answered. "And I may have taken advantage of my newfound knowledge."

"Hmmm." Mark saw his dad pick up his trunk with one hand. "Looks like I'll have to include a few activities this summer to compensate for that."

"Yeah sure, Dad," Mark replied sweetly. His dad gave him a brilliant grin and thumped him on his back with his free hand.

"So, how was your first year at your school?" Glancing at Mark, he added, "Sufficiently _magical_?"

"That was a poor one dad," Mark said as they walked to a black taxicab. "And yes, it was brilliant."

After his Dad helped the cabbie put Mark's trunk inside the boot of the cab, he looked at Mark.

"You get up to any shenanigans at your school?" he asked before slipping inside the cab.

Mark shook his head silently as he muttered his reply before getting inside the cab.

"Oh, you have no idea."

* * *

13th July 1992

_Dear Marky-boy,_

_It is our solemn duty to inform you that we, Messrs. Gred and Forge Weasley have been raising all manners of hell. Our mother (who you should be on the lookout from now on) is right upset at someone corrupting her already hopeless sons further. Despite our repeated proclamations with regards to the subject, she refuses to believe that we chose the rocker lifestyle (or as Forge likes to say, it chose us)._

_Ickle Gin-Gin was quite fascinated with your Bass guitar, asking us to teach her how to play. But one look from our mother silenced her on the subject. We do notice her watching our practices, although we are certain she's more looking forward to meeting the legendary Harry Potter. _

_You see, ickle Gin-Gin has a crush on our very Boy-Who-Lived, and she refuses to believe our words when we describe him as a brave little gerbil. She rather likes to listen to Ron's tales of his various 'adventures with Harry.' Gred even heard him tell her about a midnight duel involving that little ferret Draco Malfoy from your year; you have any idea about it?_

_Ron does clam up a bit when she asks him about the thing with Quirrell. He's been a bit moody lately—all serious like. Even Harry isn't replying to his letters. We're trying our best to keep his mood up, but you probably have a better idea what he's going through._

_With that said, what have you been up to comrade? Your last letter was a bit short on any mentions of the various shenanigans you must be getting up to. You are getting up to mischief, aren't you? Otherwise, we may have to demote from the New Marauders._

_Write back soon, oh brother-from-another-mother (trust us, this one's angry at you),_

_Gred and Forge Weasley_

Mark shook his head with barely contained laughter as he folded up the letter before tossing it on his desk. Trust the twins to make fun out of everything.

Having been back from Hogwarts for more than three weeks now, Mark had realised that he missed his friends more than he had anticipated beforehand. He wondered whether he should have accepted the twin's invitation for visiting, but remembered that Mrs Weasley didn't seem that warm towards him right now. Well, he had unknowingly dodged the bullet for now.

As he remembered what the twins had said about Ron, Mark sighed audibly. The incident with Quirrell had been less of an adventure and more of a nightmare for all of them. It was natural for Ron to not want to share that experience with anyone who wasn't present that night.

Even he hadn't told his Dad and Edwin about what had happened with Quirrell and Voldemort; he wasn't exactly sure how to make 'My-teacher-was-possessed-by-a-Dark-Lord-and-was-after-a-priceless-artefact-that-I-stopped-him-from-getting-so-he-tried-to-kill-me' sound good enough. So, Mark had stuck to a story about how he had helped capture a corrupt Professor who was trying to steal from the school. Which was technically correct.

Though Mark found it odd that Harry wasn't even replying to Ron's letter. The two if them were thick as thieves back at Hogwarts. Why wouldn't Harry reply to Ron, then?

As he glanced again at the twin's letter, Mark groaned inwardly as the answer struck him. Perhaps Harry was as lazy about written correspondence as he was. It was only at his Dad's repeated insistence that Mark had grudgingly written letters to his friends. Letter writing was something he had never enjoyed, particularly as all the other instances had been as an exercise during his English class in primary school. Who needed letters when you had the telephone?

It had gotten a bit better once Mark realised that he didn't have to particularly care about the proper format and other stuff that his English teachers harped on about. But still, a chore to him it was.

By now, he had written to the twins, Neville, Harry, Ron, and at his Dad's insistence, Hermione Granger. To no one's surprise, she had been the first to reply, her letter full of subtle questions designed to figure out how much of the summer homework he had already finished off.

Neville's reply had been all formal, written on some form of a quality parchment in a handwriting which was painfully better than the one he used at school; the result of his Grandmother looking over his shoulder, no doubt. Thankfully, the content of the letter was quite positive. Impressed by his performance at the end-of-year exams and the fifty points he had earned for his 'unflinching loyalty,' Madam Longbottom had happily agreed to let him practice on their makeshift drum-set in the conservatory.

Ron's reply had been lazily short, filled with comments about the Chudley Cannons improving performance at the Quidditch League, while Harry hadn't replied yet. Mark hadn't found it that odd at first, but reading that Harry wasn't replying to Ron piqued his curiosity. Still, it was just three weeks in. Harry might reply to them sometime later this month.

For now, Mark was putting efforts to make his summer as productive as possible. With addition to the new exercise regime his Dad had asked him to follow, Mark spent every ounce of his time reading up on the stuff he had brought home from Hogwarts. There was a lot of stuff that he found especially interesting, and he was nearly finished with the materials on alchemy. Of course, Mark didn't understand all of it at once—instead having to refer back to different potions textbooks to understand many of the terms and processes that alchemy used. Still, it was an exciting process, and Mark was loving every second of it.

His Dad had been quite understanding of his pursuits, although Mark hadn't told him about his final goal. Right now, he believed Mark was studying up a lot as he'd been offered to collaborate with very famous wizards called the Flamels. Again, technically true.

Mark wished there was some way for him to show his Dad what all he'd learned at school; the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery prohibited students from using magic outside of school. All of the students (even the fifth and sixth-years) had received the reminder pamphlets before boarding the Hogwarts Express home. Perhaps he could ask the twins about it in his next letter. They might have already figured out how to get around the restrictions.

Over the next few days, Mark planned to do some preliminary study of the Elixir sample that the Flamels had given him. Right now, the crystal flask was kept securely in one of the compartments of his trunk. He would only need a single drop for now, just enough to prepare a slide to examine under his microscope that his Dad had gifted him three years ago.

This was the first step towards the goal of finding a cure, and the very thought of it sent a thrill down his spine.

* * *

AN: This chapter has been extensively reworked and elaborated.

With this, we finally wrap up Year One. Events of Year Two are more significantly divergent than those of Year One, and I hope you have enjoyed the story so far.

Your feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	22. The Ford Anglia

**The Ford Anglia**

* * *

AN: This chapter basically sums up Harry's summer after the first year, and for all purposes is very similar to canon. You can skip it if you wish to.

* * *

31st July 1992

Harry looked out his window. Damn Dobby. And damn the Dursleys. This could be considered his worse birthday yet.

Technically his sixth birthday had been worse when Uncle Vernon had broken Harry's arm before shoving him inside the cupboard-under-the-stairs. But back then Harry hadn't had his hopes crushed. Back then he simply had no hope.

Since coming back from a wonderful year at Hogwarts, he had been crashed back into the reality that was life at Number 4, Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon had locked his trunk under the stairs the moment they had arrived (along with his wand, which was inside the trunk), and he had padlocked Hedwig's cage.

Now used to three full meals at Hogwarts, Harry was painfully reminded how little food he used to get here. Plus, the usual chores were there to fill his days. Cooking, cleaning and gardening.

The only good thing was that Dudley was now afraid of Harry using magic on him. The pig's tail that Hagrid had given him must have really scared Dudley. Muttering a few words like 'hocus pocus' were now sufficient to send his cousin scurrying away from him.

Still, Harry missed Hogwarts. It was the place that actually felt like home. He had hoped that he could stay over at Hogwarts in the summer, just like he had done for the Christmas and Easter breaks, but that was not allowed. Professor McGonagall had told him that no student was allowed to stay back for the summers, and no exceptions were ever made in that regard. So he had no choice but to return here.

Still, the past year had been wonderful. Except perhaps for the thing with Voldemort. After the Flamels had left to meet Mark, Professor Dumbledore had spoken to him about his parents and the man who had killed them.

When Voldemort had come to kill Harry, his mother had died to save him. And that sacrifice had protected him from Voldemort as a baby. That sacrifice had also protected him when Quirrell had tried to kill him in June.

That had weighed on Harry's mind. His mother had died to save him. That she sacrificed herself for him. That she had really _loved him_.

When Harry had asked Professor Dumbledore why Voldemort had tried to kill him when he was a baby, the answer he had gotten in reply was cryptic. Professor Dumbledore had said that he wasn't ready for the answer yet; that the truth was a dangerous thing, to be handled carefully. That he would tell Harry when he was ready.

All of this had weighed heavily on Harry's mind. Why did Professor Dumbledore think he was not old enough? Was it because of the Stone? Was Professor Dumbledore disappointed in him that he had failed to protect it, even though he had tried to assure Harry otherwise?

These thoughts had troubled him since he'd come back from Hogwarts. He had considered sharing them with Ron and Hermione but decided not to. Maybe he was looking too much into it. His friends didn't need to know about his stupid thoughts.

His friends. Harry scoffed internally as he thought about them. To say that he was a little upset at not receiving any correspondence from them all summer was an understatement. But he hadn't thought much about it. Obviously, they had better things to do. Ron was a notoriously bad correspondent, and Hermione didn't have an owl. So it was okay that they didn't write to him. After all, he wasn't writing them any letters either since Hedwig was now locked in her cage.

But when he hadn't received any letters today on his birthday, Harry had been devastated. Given that her birthday was in early September, they hadn't celebrated Hermione's last year. But they had held a small celebration for Ron's birthday in March. Surely, they would have remembered his?

As he found out later in the evening, they had, in fact, remembered. Not only that, but they had even written him numerous letters ever since the summer began.

It had all begun this evening when Uncle Vernon had remanded Harry to his room. The Dursleys were entertaining the Masons tonight, who were important clients of Grunnings, the drill company that Uncle Vernon worked for. And obviously, no one wanted a _freak_ like Harry around to ruin the evening.

So, Harry was instructed to stay put in his room and not make a single sound. And more importantly, keep his _freakishness_ to himself.

But that plan was soon shot to hell. When Harry closed the door to his room, he found a strange creature standing on his bed. An obviously magical creature, clearly out of place inside his bedroom.

At first, Harry thought it was a goblin. The resemblance was quite strong, with a similar height and body structure. On further examination, however, he found it to be something different entirely.

It was about three feet tall, with large bat-like ears, bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls, and a thin, long, pointed nose. Wearing an old pillowcase as a robe, it was the most miserable looking creature Harry had ever seen. It introduced itself as Dobby and told Harry that it was a house-elf—A magically bonded servant for a wizarding family.

Dobby had come to ask Harry not to return to Hogwarts.

That was like a punch to the gut. Not return to Hogwarts? When he had asked why, Dobby had replied that there was a secret and evil plot being planned at Hogwarts this year and that it was not safe for Harry to return.

Harry had found himself internally choking as he tried to argue with Dobby. There was no way he could stay here any longer than summers. When he said that he had to return to Hogwarts and his friends, Dobby brought up the fact that his friends hadn't even written to him all summers.

That sent alarm bells ringing in Harry's mind. How had Dobby known that he had had no correspondence with his friends? As it turned out, Dobby had been responsible for stopping Harry's mail. The elf had thought that if Harry felt his friends had abandoned him, he would not go back to Hogwarts.

This had made Harry angry; angry like he had only been once before when he found out that the Dursley's had lied about his parent's death. Harry felt rage towards the elf, but controlled himself from acting on it seeing the already miserable existence of Dobby.

According to Dobby, he was often ordered to punish himself for any and all mistakes that he made. He mentioned things like having to bang his head repeatedly and shutting his ears in the oven door. He even tried to punish himself by trying to crack Harry's bedside lamp over his head, all because he was possibly disobeying his master's orders by coming to Privet Drive to warn Harry.

Even though Dobby insisted, Harry refused to agree to his demands. He refused to not return to Hogwarts. It was then that everything had spiralled out of control.

Dobby, now set upon preventing Harry from returning, slipped past Harry and out the door. Harry, panicked, followed the elf into the kitchen. As a final warning, Dobby used magic to float Aunt Petunia's multi-layered pudding up in the air, threatening to let it drop. Harry stayed stubborn, trying to find a way to stop the insane elf. But it was too late; Dobby let the pudding drop and vanished from the room.

The noise drew both the Dursley's and the Masons into the kitchen, where they were met by the most bizarre sight. Harry, standing right in the middle of the kitchen covered in the remains of the pudding.

If that wasn't enough, Mrs Mason, who was deathly afraid of birds got shocked when the owl from the Ministry of Magic arrived. It carried a warning letter addressed to Harry for breaking the Decree on Restriction of Underage Magic.

This had been the last straw for Uncle Vernon. Now aware that Harry wasn't allowed to use magic outside of school, he locked Harry inside his room after giving him a good thumping and letting loose a few blows alongside his usual string of insults.

Now sitting inside the locked room Harry looked out his window. He had heard his Uncle mention something about putting bars on them. He was now a prisoner in his room. Dobby had been successful; it didn't look like Harry was returning to Hogwarts now.

Harry sometimes wondered about the reactions of his friends if they ever found out about his life here. He had slipped out a lot during his first few weeks at Hogwarts, often making an unconscious comment about the being starved or beaten by the Dursleys. The only one who was around Harry during that time was Ron, who had either not noticed him slip or just kept quiet. His friend had a good heart, but he was often oblivious to most of the things around him.

Once Hermione started hanging out with them, he had made extra attention to not let anything slip; the girl was too smart for her own good. Not that she would actually believe everything about his treatment at the hands of his relatives. She believed the good in everyone and wouldn't be able to fathom such cruelty. She would probably think he was exaggerating for dramatic effect.

Neville and the other boys in his dormitory didn't pay much attention to him, nor did he pay much attention to them. The only possible exception could be Mark.

Harry had often noticed Mark staring at him, and he was no idiot. From what Harry reckoned, Mark must have thought that Harry's family wasn't that financially stable, given the hand-me-downs he wore at school. The t-shirt he gifted Harry was evidence supporting that fact. Harry decided to not correct his perception; it was a useful cover for the truth.

Harry swallowed the lump in his truth as he saw Hedwig sleeping in the cage. She had been locked in there for more than a month now, cooped up instead of flying free like she was meant to. And now…

Harry knew that the coming days were going to be horrible. With no obvious way of returning to Hogwarts or sending anyone any message, he only hoped somebody would notice him missing on the Express.

* * *

1st September 1992

"We can fly the car to Hogwarts!"

That had been Ron's suggestion when the two of them had found themselves stuck outside the magical barrier at Kings Cross Station which allowed entry onto platform nine-and-a-three-quarters.

Since they had missed the Express and there seemed no other way to get to Hogwarts before the Welcoming feast, it had seemed like a brilliant idea. Now, a few hours into their flight, he wasn't so sure anymore. As they flew over the gleaming red Hogwarts Express, Harry had a growing feeling that this was probably not going to turn out that well.

After the incident on his birthday, Harry had been locked inside his room for three days before help arrived. Harry, who had spent days reading and rereading the letters his friends had sent him, was surprised to see Ron's face in his window that night.

Turned out that Mr Weasley, who worked in the ministry got wind of Harry's warning and told his family. Ron immediately knew something was wrong since Harry had not responded to any of the letters and would never have broken the rule for fun.

Enlisting the help of his twin brothers, the three of them set out to rescue Harry in the dead of the night. They had flown to Surrey all the way from their home in Ottery St. Catchpole in their dad's enchanted Ford Anglia; the same car Ron was now flying over the Express.

Once they reached the Burrow—the Weasley's home, they found Mrs Weasley awaiting their return. Amidst her scolding her sons for their actions, Harry clearly saw the love and worry she had for her children. He had been even more surprised when she evidently extended that affection to him. Never before had anyone hugged him like that.

He spent the rest of his summer with the Weasleys at the Burrow. He had never before seen such a house—it looked like a misshapen cake, with each layer added haphazardly and the impending sensation that it could collapse any moment. But somehow, odd that it was, Harry had never seen anything else that just called out _home._

The Weasleys were the most wonderful people he had ever met. He already knew four of them from school—Ron, Fred, George, and Percy. Mrs Weasley, their mother, was a kind and loving woman. The moment he had arrived, she had fussed over him and insisted that he eat something healthy. As evidenced by her food, she was also a great cook. In many ways, she was the exact opposite of Aunt Petunia. Most importantly, she and her family had made Harry feel welcome in their home.

Mr Weasley was one of the most interesting men Harry had met, and that included Dumbledore. He was a pureblood wizard but was fascinated with muggles and muggle-technology. He kept asking Harry different questions about various muggle customs and technology, which Harry tried to answer to the best of his abilities.

Percy the prefect spent very little time around Harry, only coming out of his room for meals. He was mainly holed up in his room, probably reading Prefects Who Gained Power.

The twins were their usual self. According to Ron, they had reduced on their pranks since they were now spending time practising music, something Mrs Weasley wasn't sure was better or not. Unlike her husband, she was not that fond of muggle culture. Still, they found enough time to play pick-up games of quidditch with Harry and Ron.

Quidditch. Harry didn't realise how much he had missed being able to fly whenever he wanted. The paddock at the Weasley orchard was of a decent size to fly around, and since they had no Quaffle to play with, they tossed apples instead.

Harry didn't know what to make of Ron's little sister. Ginny, Ron told him, had a crush on Harry. She became extremely quiet anytime he was around, occasionally acting clumsy and even scurrying away. He tried talking to her, despite his usual annoyance at the stupid fangirls back at Hogwarts, but she responded only in nods or one-word answers. The most she had spoken was when she had stood up to Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley. Harry could recall that trip in vivid detail.

They had visited Diagon Alley to get their books and supplies. Since he had never travelled by Floo, Harry ended up taking a wrong turn and came out through the fireplace at Borgin and Burkes, a shady shop in Knockturn Alley. After witnessing an interesting conversation between Draco Malfoy and his father, Harry was rescued by Hagrid and joined up with the Weasleys.

They had decided to coordinate their visit with their friends, so Hermione was also there for her shopping. Neville and Mark had come too, but after a brief greeting and introductions, they went on their way with the twins. Harry could have sworn he saw Mrs Weasley give Mark a pointed look. She clearly disapproved of Fred and George spending time playing rock music that Mark had introduced them to. Plus, his appearance only seemed to make the matter worse—with his band t-shirt and his long rocker hairstyle, he didn't fit Mrs Weasley's definition of a 'good boy.'

Hermione had been excited about meeting Gilderoy Lockhart, the author of their Defence Against the Dark Arts books for this year. He was holding a book signing at Flourish and Botts on that day.

Harry had found it odd when he had seen the booklists for this year—despite being in different years, all of them had the same books prescribed for DADA. George had commented that the new Professor was likely a witch since Lockhart was handsome and thus popular with female readers.

It turned out that it was Lockhart himself who was their new Professor for Defence, as the rather pompous man revealed to the reporter for the Daily Prophet. Somehow, he had seen Harry in the crowd and used the opportunity to bolster his publicity by taking a picture with the Boy-Who-Lived.

If that wasn't enough, Draco Malfoy had also chosen that day to turn up at the bookstore. On seeing Harry, he had also seized the opportunity to taunt him as usual. Surprisingly, it was Ginny Weasley who had retorted angrily in Harry's defence, although Malfoy did manage to silence her in embarrassment by taunting Harry about his poor choice for a girlfriend.

Further insults were halted when Draco's father arrived, but only for a while. It seemed that Mr Malfoy and Mr Weasley were even more of enemies than Ron and Draco were, so the taunts changed targets. As Harry had overheard earlier at Burgin and Burkes, the Malfoys had a large collection of dark artefacts that they were looking to dispose of due to the Ministry raids being conducted by Mr Weasley and his colleagues. This was the main cause of tension between the two of them.

The insults turned sour when Mr Malfoy commented on Hermione's parents being present in their company, insinuating the worst sort of insults against muggles. This had been the breaking point, as the next moment, Mr Weasley punched Mr Malfoy. The two wizards soon got into a full-blown fistfight inside the bookstore, the children cheering for their fathers. Even poor Ginny got knocked over, her cauldron full of books spilling away on the floor. It was only when Hagrid arrived that he managed to break the fight.

Mr Malfoy then left, but not before throwing in a last remark about the state of Ginny's books. Once they were gone, no one had been keen to stick around in Diagon Alley any longer. The Grangers were visibly disturbed at witnessing the prejudice first-hand and left without remark. Mrs Weasley was upset by her husband's behaviour, and the Weasleys too quietly made for their home, Harry in tow.

The rest of the summer was uneventful, except now even Ginny was holed up in her room. Finally, their vacation ended, with Harry and the Weasley children due to board the Hogwarts Express for the start of term.

After a repeated delay due to the twins forgetting their brooms and Ginny forgetting her diary, Mr Weasley had driven them to Kings Cross in the magical Ford Anglia. They finally managed to arrive with only fifteen minutes left before the Express departed

They went through the barrier in pairs; Percy and Mr Weasley first, then the twins, followed by Mrs Weasley and Ginny, with Ron and Harry last. Only it didn't work. For some reason, the barrier closed off, leaving Ron and Harry stranded on the other side. They watched helplessly as the clock ticked to eleven; the train must have left. As they pondered what to do next, Ron had been struck by the brilliant idea of flying the car.

As they flew around a snow-capped mountain, the sun began to set and darkness crept in. Ron dipped below the clouds to do the cursory check on the train. Satisfied, he tried to accelerate back up, but the car didn't respond. Instead, the engine began to whine dreadfully.

Harry looked nervously at Ron, who was clearly putting on a brave face.

"It's probably just tired," said Ron, "It's never been this far before…"

Harry nodded silently. However, as the sky grew darker, the whines became louder, with small wisps of steam coming from under the hood.

Yes, this was not going to turn out that well.

* * *

AN: On to Hogwarts! We've begun Year Two. As you would have noticed this chapter basically sums up Harry's summer after the first year, and is quite similar to canon.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	23. Ginny Weasley

**Ginny Weasley**

* * *

1st September 1992

"Stupid Gits," Ginny muttered under her breath as she stomped out of the compartment. Couldn't her brothers leave her alone for once?

Now that she was finally on her way to Hogwarts, Ginny had been feeling cheerful today. Sitting amicably with some other girls who were also set to join in with her, she had tried to make some friends early.

That plan went downhill when her irritating brothers decided to drop in. Fred and George had taken advantage of this lovely opportunity to tease her about her crush on Harry Potter. The other girls started giggling at that, but Ginny kept quiet. It was only when they were about to bring up a certain incident with the butter dish that she snapped and got out.

Ginny's legs carried her forward as she tried to cool herself. The moment she saw an empty compartment, she absently opened the door and stepped inside and slammed the door behind her. Relieved that the irritating idiots wouldn't find her here, she plopped herself onto the seat and closed her eyes.

As her breathing heaved to normal, she felt a set of eyes on her. Opening them she saw that her previous assessment was incorrect; the compartment had not been empty. Sitting on the opposite side near the window was a familiar looking boy. She remembered seeing him in Diagon Alley that day. He was one of Ron's dormmates - Mark.

He was observing her with an intense expression. It felt as if he was examining some fascinating specimen - the specimen being her.

"What?!" she snapped, her tone a tad sharper than she intended. Her anger at her brothers had not dissipated yet, and she remembered that Mark was a good friend of theirs.

The boy in front of her smiled softly, then gave a slight smirk.

"You seem to be having a splendid day."

It was as if a dam broke. All her frustration that had pent-up over the last month surfaced itself.

"No, I'm not. My day is far from being splendid. First, Ron comes and decides to tell me to stay away from Harry, because he is 'his friend'," she drew quote marks in the air. "Then, mum starts harping on about signing the permission slip for the flying classes, then in the morning Percy decides to take me aside and advise me about my conduct at school and how I should not be an embarrassment to him," she rambled on, "now, Fred and George decide to pay me a visit and embarrass me in front of the other girls by telling abo-" Ginny's eyes went to Mark's face and she caught herself.

"You were being sarcastic." Her anger deflated at this realisation.

"Excellent observation, Miss Weasley," Mark spoke in a high-pitched tone, which Ginny recognised to be a poor imitation of Professor McGonagall's.

Ginny snorted at the effort, trying hard to contain her laughter. She failed, resulting in a peculiar sounding giggle. Mark must have found it amusing, for he too began to chuckle. Within moments, they were laughing loudly, the joke already forgotten.

Finally, they settled back down, the initial ice between them broken.

"So, what were Fred and George teasing you about?" Mark asked. Ginny immediately went on guard. She narrowed her eyes at him, a hint of a smile still on her lips

"I'm not telling you that mister. I know you're in deep with them"

Mark opened his mouth to retort but closed it back again.

"You know what, that's a fair point." He raised his arms slightly in mock surrender. "I won't ask further"

This took Ginny by surprise. As the youngest in the family, no one had ever stepped back in a conversation with her; certainly not when there was an obvious opportunity to tease her. Unsure of what to say, she thought it best to change the topic.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you sitting alone here?"

"Oh." Mark took a moment before answering. "Well, this was the same compartment I sat in last year with Neville, Fred and George. Turns out Fred and George are sitting up ahead with Lee, and Neville has the flu, so he isn't on the Express today."

"Won't he get in trouble? For missing the Express? I always thought that if you missed the train you weren't allowed at Hogwarts." Ginny was speaking more to herself now. "I guess that doesn't really make sense when I say it out loud. They surely wouldn't stop a student from attending just because of a missed train."

"Do you always do that- hold halfway conversations with yourself?"

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him, trying to look as menacing as possible while she thought of an equally witty comeback.

"It's called thinking, mister. Maybe you should give it a try in that thick brain of yours."

Yes! That had been a good one.

"Ah, thinking. I'm not so sure about that. Wouldn't want Hermione to be angrier at me than usual. She's already pulling her hair at the fact that I exist. She'll probably kill me if I now decide to _think_"

"Hermione Granger? Wasn't she the first in her class?" Ginny had also met the girl at Diagon Alley. Ron had boasted about how he was friends with the smartest girl in school all summer.

In response, Mark cocked one eyebrow in challenge. Ginny remembered Fred telling her about Mark being good at magic.

Deciding not to give in that easily, she retorted in the most sickly-sweet tone possible.

"You may be smart, but you don't pull off that look."

"That hurts Red," Mark replied, rubbing his chest in a dramatic manner. "You didn't have to break my heart like that."

"Don't call me that!"

"What? Red? Hmm. Okay, what do you prefer then - Gin, Gin-Gin, or _Ginevra_?"

Mark drew the last word as long as possible before Ginny launched herself at him and began punching him repeatedly.

"Ow," Mark said after she finished. He nursed his now sore ribs. "You punch pretty well, for-"

"A girl?" Ginny asked angrily

"-for someone as small as you," he finished. "It was a compliment. You have solid - punching skills."

Ginny felt sufficiently placated at this. She even felt a bit better after being able to take her anger out, although she would have preferred a different target.

"Feel better?" Mark asked.

'How did he know?' Ginny wondered before she realised. He had riled her up so that she would rid herself of her anger. She nodded silently in reply.

"Good. Next time, however, remind me to get you an actual punching bag"

"What's a punching bag?"

Mark looked at her with a disappointed expression. It took a moment for her to realise the stupidity of her question.

"Sorry, stupid question," she answered sheepishly.

"Do you play quidditch?" He had obviously changed the topic to save her the embarrassment.

Ginny blinked at this. No one had ever asked her this question. Not even Tom. They always assumed that since she was a girl, she wouldn't know how to play.

Shaking her thoughts, she decided to answer Mark, who was now looking confused at her silence.

"Uh- I haven't really played yet. I would like to play Chaser," she said the last part a bit wistfully.

"Really? That's great," said Mark. He then frowned in confusion. "But why haven't you played yet? Your brothers mentioned that they have pick-up games at your place all the time?"

"Ha! Those gits let a girl play with them? They don't even know I can fly circles around them."

"That's stupid of them, especially with all the starting chasers of Gryffindor being girls." He then turned to her, having remembered something important.

"Earlier - you said something about a permission slip for flying classes. What's that? Is that something new this year?"

Ginny deflated again. Obviously, he wouldn't know anything about it.

"It's required for all the female students who want to take flying classes. Girls need similar slips signed to join the quidditch teams"

"What?!" Mark exclaimed, clearly upset by this revelation. "What century are they living in?" Taking a pause, he added, "Your mother refused to sign yours? Why?"

Ginny was a little nervous to speak about her mother to an almost strange boy. But then, he had been the friendliest person she had encountered yet. After Tom, that was.

"She doesn't think that it encourages proper behaviour in a girl. Dad had to intervene and she finally agreed," she answered hesitantly. After a pause, she added "Not that I strictly need to learn how to fly. I've known how to do that since I was six"

Mark looked at her, the unasked question evident on his face. She decided to tell him about it.

"I taught myself to fly by borrowing the brooms from the broom shed early in the morning. I haven't ever told anyone about it," she lied. She had told Tom only a few days ago.

"That's really impressive Ginny," said Mark, his face showing his sincerity. He gave her a definite nod, which signalled his acknowledgement of her secret.

"Thanks. Ron mentioned you're on the quidditch team?"

"Just on the reserve," Mark replied. "Oliver isn't keen on fielding reserves unless absolutely necessary, so I haven't actually played out of practice." After a pause, he added, "You should try out for the reserves too. I heard Dean isn't too keen on continuing this year, and if you're good, I don't think Oliver will mind taking you in."

"I may not be in Gryffindor," Ginny said in a worried tone.

"Right, I forgot that you haven't been sorted in yet."

"Is it hard?" Ginny asked hesitantly.

"What?"

"The sorting test. Is it difficult?"

"Not really. You just have to wrestle a hat from a troll and put it on."

Ginny blanched at that. On seeing the smirk on Mark's face, she realised he was having her on. She huffed and crossed her arms.

"You don't have to talk to me if that's what you're going to do."

"Alright, I was kidding. But not about the hat though- That's what you have to do. Put on a hat, and then Elijah sorts you."

"Who's Elijah?" Ginny asked, confused.

"Oh, that's the sorting hat's name. It's a talking hat, you see. It looks into your mind and judges you accordingly," Mark explained.

Ginny thought about that for a few moments, nervousness building inside her. Hesitantly she asked,

"So it decides where to put you? Against your wishes?"

"I don't think so." Mark's face was deep in thought. "I think it does take your choice into account, from what I can make of my experience."

Looking at the building panic on her face, he tried reassuring her

"Don't be nervous, it'll be fine."

"What if I get sorted in some other house? I won't have anyone to talk to," she said dejectedly.

"You'll make new friends. Look, you've already made one in me."

"And what if I'm sorted in Slytherin? What then?"

Mark looked directly into her eyes, and he seemed to be weighing his answer before replying.

"Then I'll be happy to have a friend dressed in green and silver."

Ginny swallowed the lump in her throat as she considered his words. Her family's attitude towards Slytherin was well known to her, as was the intense hatred between the house of lions and the house of snakes.

"You'll still want to be friends with me?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

Mark just looked at her and put his right hand forward. His fist was curled, with the exception of the littlest finger that was extended at her.

"Pinky promise"

Ginny laughed and returned the gesture to her new friend. Perhaps she would make more friends at Hogwarts.

And if she didn't, she still had Tom with her.

* * *

Standing near the window in his office, Albus took a deep breath as he looked out at the depths of the forbidden forest, his eyes lost in beyond the horizon. The half-moon spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose were far heavier than usual. He was tired.

The events of the past few months had been utterly exhausting. And that was the least of his problems.

_He _was still alive.

Albus had seen him, seen the proof with his own eyes of _his_ continued existence. What had until now been conjecture was now the truth. Tom had survived that night. Somehow.

Albus had not expected Tom to be bold enough to come to Hogwarts _in person_. He had suspected an agent to come after the Stone, after what Nicolas and Perenelle had shared with him. After watching Quirinus's behaviour in September, he was sure he had found his prey. The recent trip to Albania had stuck out like a sore thumb.

As long as he had not harmed any student, he had allowed Quirinus to teach. Merlin knew he needed his Defence teachers. With the Board of Governors' ban in effect since 1932, Albus had been unable to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had appealed the decision on numerous occasions, but they had refused, citing his 'non-traditional methods' as being disruptive to their education policy.

Perhaps it was for the best, given the curse Tom had put on the position. There was no denying it; no other possible explanation accounted for the untimely tenure of all his Defence teachers. His repeated attempts to deal with it had been in vain. He had no idea how.

Severus had asked for the position repeatedly, but Albus was sure that it was a bad idea. The risk wasn't worth it. And after the confirmation he got in June, he was now confident of it.

In any case, Albus was disappointed in Severus's behaviour all of last year. His treatment of Harry was fuelled by a hatred that the man should have gotten over by now.

Albus's thoughts turned to the boy on who his hopes lay. Harry. The events of last year had proved that the boy was a true gem.

Even after all these years, the decision to leave Harry Potter in the custody of his aunt weighed on him. Had he done the right thing?

Thinking back, he had repeatedly considered any other possibility that was available to him then. But he still came to the same conclusion.

Albus had been in the Ministry when the news of the attack reached his ears. When he learned that Harry had survived, there was no denying it. The boy needed to be protected.

Knowing that the Ministry would never let him take custody of the child, he had sought the next best option. Lily's sister was family, and thus acceptable to them; in addition, he had been able to invoke the brilliant magical protection that Lily's sacrifice provided. In some ways, it was even stronger than what he could provide himself.

His decision to send a message to Hagrid had been timely; minutes later he had found out that Minister Bagnold was going to try and take custody of the 'national hero' for her own political agenda.

Hagrid had taken care of the baby for the day, while Albus had moved the necessary pieces in the ministry. The first of November had been a long day.

When he reached Surrey in the evening, Minerva had advised him against leaving Harry with Petunia. She had brought up the nature of Petunia and her new family, how it was not the ideal environment for the boy to grow up in. His friend Arabella, who he had asked to keep an eye on Harry, had reported how poorly they treated the boy.

But they did not know the repeated plots that had been attempted to harm the boy-who-lived. Voldemort may have disappeared, those that believed in him had not. After all, the attack on the Longbottoms was proof of that. Harry may have to suffer in his childhood, but at least he would make it out alive. He had to.

Turning back towards his desk, Albus glanced at the empty golden perch in the corner. His companion was out hunting today. Sighing, he took his seat on his chair. His attention was then drawn towards the appointment letter for one Gilderoy Lockhart.

Albus sighed again, this time audibly. Lockhart had been the only qualified applicant this year, that is, if his qualifications had any real weight.

He remembered the Ravenclaw's tenure here as a student. Lockhart had been an average student and had gotten an O in his Charms and an E in his Defence NEWTs. His record in the decade afterwards, however, had been exemplary.

Albus had heard excerpts about some of these extraordinary incidents from his friends around the world. From what he could tell all of them seemed genuine. But something - something felt off. He chalked it off to the inflated ego of Lockhart. After all, humility and magical skill were not related to each other.

Nevertheless, Lockhart had somehow managed to get a foot into the Board of Governors. They had wholeheartedly approved the booklists for this year. Albus had been surprised by this, for the Board rarely approved defence books on the first go. They usually had some objections, specifically with any books that leaned more towards the practical side.

When he saw the lists, Albus had been doubly confused. The lists for all the years were same and contained all of Lockhart's own works, which were essentially storybooks. The man wasn't planning to teach using storybooks as texts, was he?

As the Headmaster, Albus had little control over the manner in which subjects were taught. Teaching autonomy was a privilege given to every member of Hogwarts staff and fell under the scrutiny of the Board of Governors. How that man managed to get this approved, Albus didn't know. Perhaps he promised Lucius some cut of the profit from the boosted sale of his books. It certainly seemed likely.

Lucius Malfoy. The man had too much influence for a former Death Eater. He was still on the Wizengamot and the Board of Governors solely on the strength of his money and family name. Ever since he was acquitted at the trials after the wars, Malfoy had used his resources to continue the agenda of pureblood supremacy, thwarting any attempts at what he called 'radicalization of wizarding culture.'

Thankfully, the Muggle Protection Act had passed despite Lucius's vehement opposition. It was an excellent piece of legislation, and Arthur Weasley had done a great job with closing some of the loopholes. It would be a big blow towards all the muggle-baiting that some of the conservatives wanted to uphold.

Lucius, however, would not sit idle. The man was not someone who accepted failure easily. He had already appealed the act twice in the Wizengamot, and had managed to increase support for his stand.

Albus just hoped that Lucius would not go after Arthur personally. Thankfully, all the younger Weasley children were coming in through the Express today, with young Ginevra joining in for her first year. Lucius wouldn't dare come after them at Hogwarts. They would be safe here.

* * *

AN: Another chapter done, and the first meeting between Mark and Ginny. Their relationship is one of the major plotlines of the story, and I hope you enjoy it.

Lockhart will not be depicted as a complete idiot as he was in the books, but with a more sinister and con-man type personality. He's unskilled with a wand, but he did manage to fool people. Anyway, there isn't any direct interaction with him until about ten chapters later, so he'll only appear in "recall" sections like this.

As for as the upgrading goes, I'm done with chapters 5 and 6. Both had major issues with POV consistency and that had to be changed. Plus originally chapter 6 was not s per my original vision, so I ended up rewriting it completely. Majorly, nothing plot-critical has changed, so there's nothing to fret about. But then, I ended up with double the wordcount in that chapter. If you guys felt that those earlier chapters weren't up to the mark, do check them out now. I hope you like them.

Plus I've now added a poll to my profile page. Its just for fun, and because I want to know what you guys think of Mark as a character and where you think the story is headed. I'm not going to be influenced by the results, I just want to see how many people guess correctly. So do check that out.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	24. Good to be Back

**Good to be Back**

* * *

4th September 1992

"They did what?!"

"Flew our Dad's car to Hogwarts. All the way from London," Fred answered merrily, drumming his fingers on the table with each word.

"Because they missed the Express?" Neville tried to confirm. "Are they barking mad?"

"I think that was sufficiently established when we began this conversation," Mark commented dryly. Unlike the twins, he wasn't of the opinion that this was some spectacular prank, planned or otherwise.

"That isn't even the best part," George grinned, "Mum sent Ron a Howler. Right here, in the middle of the Great Hall."

Neville had his mouth hung open at that. Mark could understand; Howlers were the worst sort of reprimand a kid could get, especially one in public. He'd seen the effects of it first-hand.

Mark would never have claimed he was some saint-like kid—he had done his fair share of idiotic mistakes at school. Technically, some weren't even mistakes; just experiments gone awry. But never had his Dad reprimanded him in such a fashion. His Dad—and even Mark by extension—believed in the effectiveness of measured and rational teaching. No scolding, no hitting. Mark didn't even recall being grounded. His Dad explained and he listened. Simple.

So, to say Mrs Weasley's Howler was something terrifying to experience was an understatement. Anyone in the Great Hall who hadn't known about the incident previously surely came to know then. He'd never forget the sheer fear and embarrassment that had run through Ron at that very moment; he would have seen it on his face even if he hadn't felt it while _gleaning_ into his mind.

Hermione Granger wasn't of the same opinion as him—she thought that the punishment was well deserved. She was now back to loathing Mark during the classes. He could see her trying even harder, obviously with the goal of firmly surpassing him this term. She was not the kind of person to settle for a draw, and Mark was happily prepared to offer a challenge.

Now that a few days had passed, Mark realised that he actually had missed Hogwarts. Not the castle itself, or the physical distance that separated Scotland and London. He would have rather preferred to attend a day school, staying close to his Dad as much as possible. No, it had been the study of magic that he had missed—the freedom to use his wand, to transfigure a snuffbox and charm a teapot, and to brew some fantastical potion.

While some things were good, some things were still the same. Professor Binns was still his ghostly self, allowing Mark the much-needed opportunity to nap in the class. Professor Sprout was still having them handle various confusing plants—if they weren't similar in appearance, they were probably similarly named. Mark was glad that Neville was finally back; he was sorely bored in the last class. Professor Snape was still his grumpy self, especially sadistic towards Harry. Mark was properly confused by the behaviour of the potions master—none of it made any sense.

In the same but diametrically opposite position was the odd behaviour of their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher—Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Second Class. If being pompous was some rare fabric, the man wore a whole set of robes made from it.

The very first class, he had given the students a pop quiz. Mark had gone through the prescribed books on the list during the summer. They were alright, if a little too story-bookish. If one combed through the self-aggrandizing stuff that the book was full off, you could find some really insightful information.

But that was not what the quiz was about at all. Instead of questions about Defence—hell any sort of useful information—it only contained questions straight out of a Witch Weekly issue. Who cared what Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour or his secret ambition was?

Hermione, obviously, had aced the test. Mark wondered if she had a slight form of photographic memory—he refused to believe any individual would willingly memorize Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite perfume. After an initial period of hoping that the test was a prank of sorts, Professor Lockhart asked two students to come forward in order to perform a certain scene from his book. Mark watched the professor enact the 'brave' manner in which he defeated a ghoul in a village in Africa—it was like watching a bad quality play.

It was then that Mark decided to glean into Professor Lockhart's mind, hoping to figure out his reasoning behind this. But he couldn't—Professor Lockhart was an Occlumens, and a good one at that.

In hindsight, Mark thought, he had to be. Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape—hell, even Professor Quirrell/Voldemort were Occlumens. It was a sign of skill and competence. And Professor Lockhart was clearly both skilled and competent—his accounts were rich enough proof of that.

Surprisingly, the DADA professor wasn't the only new Occlumens at school. There was the youngest Weasley and his newest friend, Ginny. Her mind was fantastically obscured—the only other student at Hogwarts who had any such defences was Harry.

Mark was glad to have met her. Ginny was smart, outgoing, snarky—lively. The exact opposite of what she had been when he had met her before at Diagon Alley in the summer. Then, she had been overtly shy, trying to blend in the background. Mark reckoned that it must have been the presence of her rather large family—he knew he would have been overwhelmed by them. He was happy that their conversation on the train went great, and that he had eased some of her worries about Elijah and the sorting—it took less than a minute for her to be declared a Gryffindor.

"What about the barrier closing itself?" Neville asked. Mark realised he had zoned out of the conversation.

"No idea, mate. It was tampered with—they checked it. But the cause is still unknown." George answered.

"In any case, they arrived with a bang, bravely battling the great Whomping Willow itself," Fred said proudly, "Couldn't have done it better ourselves. And because it was before the term started, they didn't even lose any points."

Mark checked his watch, his breakfast done. Drinking up the now lukewarm coffee from his cup (being friends with the house-elves had its perks—take that Dad!), he nudged Neville.

"It's time for charms," Mark announced. "Come on, finish up. I'll bring you up to speed on all the classes."

* * *

5th September 1992

"Whatsamatter?" Harry groaned. Couldn't he have some peaceful sleep for once?

"Get up. Time for Quidditch practice" Wood answered a little too cheerfully. "You guys too. I want the reserves on the pitch today too."

"But its five in the morning!" Ron cried out, still buried beneath his blankets. Harry, was already out and getting dressed. Used to rude wake-up calls, he watched in amusement as Ron punched his pillow before reluctantly clambering out of the bed. Mark, meanwhile, was nodding absently as he grabbed his clothes, dark circles beneath his eyes. He must have stayed up late last night, as was usual for the boy.

"Yes, it's part of the new training program," Wood informed. "I'll be waiting for you lot in the common room," he said before vanishing down the stairs. The three of them got dressed in their Quidditch robes, Ron muttering curses at everything in sight.

"Lucky sods," said Ron as he put on his boots, glaring at Seamus and Dean, still asleep in their beds. Dean had dropped out of the reserve team this year, allowing him more time to pursue his drawing.

"Come on, we don't want to keep Wood waiting," said Harry, his Nimbus Two Thousand in his hand. Ron picked up his old Shooting Star, while Mark would still be using one of the school brooms.

Wood was waiting for them in the common room, along with the rest of the team. Harry saw that the Weasley twins were still half asleep, drooping over their brooms. The other players—a bit more awake than them—were looking generally annoyed.

"Morning Wood!" said Mark, a bit too loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the common room.

Harry turned to look at him—the enthusiasm seemed odd, the wide grin on the boy's face even more so. It took a moment for Harry's sleep-addled brain to register the connotation; when he did, he barely managed to hold in his laughter.

Evidently, the others weren't that slow. The impact of Mark's words had been instantaneous; Fred and George snapped to attention before smiling wildly, the rest turning to see Oliver Wood, who had now turned beet red. Ron was the only one still too sleepy to have realised what happened.

"What? Can't I greet my _dedicated captain_ who has decided to hold our practice at this _wonderful hour_?" Mark asked, and Harry almost lost it. Chuckles and giggles broke out, and Wood decided to take control of the situation.

"That's enough cheek, Smith. Let's move, people," Wood ordered, his face still flushed from embarrassment.

.

.

"He's a foul git, he is! Bloody Malfoy." Harry complained as he sat in Hagrid's Hut. Hermione looked pale, while Ron was nodded silently in agreement, still belching slugs into the bucket in his hands.

After spending three hours of their 'practice time' inside the changing rooms going over all different plays and strategies that Wood had thought of incorporating in this year, they finally made their way to the Quidditch Pitch. It was mid-morning already by then, the reserves allowed to go back to bed. Ron had obviously stuck around, partly because he was interested in seeing Wood employ the new plays. He joined Hermione in the stands, who had brought along some breakfast for the two of them, a Lockhart book in her hand. Colin Creevey—a new first-year Gryffindor, excited to even be in the presence of the great 'Harry Potter'—was busy clicking away pictures of Harry on his magical camera.

An hour into the actual practice, one which Harry was trying even harder than usual—he was feeling especially guilty about the fact that they had lost the last match spectacularly due to him being stuck in the Hospital wing with no reserve seeker to take his place—the Slytherin Quidditch team had shown up.

Evidently, Snape had given them permission to practice today, overriding Wood's booking of the Quidditch pitch. The reason for their special practice was the training of a new Seeker—Draco Malfoy. His father—who Harry had seen in Knockturn Alley that day—had 'generously donated' a full set of brand-new Nimbus 2001's for the entire Slytherin team.

Malfoy, unable to resist insulting anyone wearing scarlet and gold, commented on the brooms of the Gryffindor team, only to be retorted back by Hermione—she mentioned how no Gryffindor had to buy their way onto the team. Enraged, Malfoy called her a Mudblood, prompting an immediate reaction from Ron.

In hindsight, if they hadn't flown from London in the car, perhaps this encounter would have gone differently. Because then Ron's wand wouldn't have been broken during their crash into the Whomping Willow. When Ron tried cursing Malfoy today, the curse backfired, causing Ron to start belching out slugs again. Evidently, Spellotape was not a prescribed fix for broken wands.

"Yer right Harry," said Hagrid, "But ye shouldn't try and pick fights with him. His father is on the Board of Governors. Leave it to the Professors. That goes 'specially for you Ron."

Ron opened his mouth to protest but instead belched a few more slugs into the bucket.

"You're right Hagrid," said Hermione. "Ron. Harry. I appreciate the two of you trying to stand up for me. But you shouldn't have tried cursing Malfoy." Taking a pause, she added with narrowed eyes, "As much as he deserved it. Remember, the last time he said that word, Professor McGonagall put him in detention for a week. He'll likely be punished again now."

* * *

6th September 1992

"Again—One, Two, Three, Four," Mark counted as George began strumming the Bass in rhythm.

Today was their first practice this term, and Mark had been blown away by the difference in his friends. The sheer improvement in their playing skills was staggering. Of course, they were still amateurs; but the last term they had barely begun learning the chords. The pace with which they were progressing was much faster than when he had first begun to play. They must have broken their backs practising all summer.

"Amazing," muttered Mark, watching Neville move fluidly over the drums. His progress was the most astonishing amongst them, as Mark hadn't strictly known how to teach someone to play the drums. He had had to draw on the limited second-hand experience of watching Ollie play at his old school. He wondered whether Neville had some innate talent for the drums; there was no way his friend was playing the way he did solely by what Mark taught him.

Fred and George were much different in their choice of music than Mark would have initially considered them to be. It hadn't taken him too long to figure out that the two were not as interchangeable as most people thought. George preferred the slow tempo of the Bass, relishing the technique involved in the playing. On the other hand, Fred preferred faster guitar heavy pieces, even singing along in his crazy voice when his heart felt like it. Mark wondered if Fred could perform as a vocalist; the boy did have the range for it.

"So, what do you say?" asked Fred, interrupting Mark's train of thought. "Do we pass muster?"

Mark didn't answer immediately; he was still processing everything he had observed. Trying to make sure if it implied what he thought it implied.

"What's wrong? I didn't think we were that bad," muttered Fred, sweat dripping off his forehead. He turned to Neville. "Were we that bad?"

"Gentleman," said Mark, drawing their attention back towards him, a broad smile on his face. "I think we have a band."

.

.

"I—that was bloody brilliant," said Neville.

"That's an understatement," remarked Fred, as they now made their way to the kitchens after the practice. "We should find some way to meet more often for this"

"Seconded, my slightly-less-handsome brother," George agreed. "How about Tuesdays? You guys don't have any classes in the evening, right?"

"Eh —" Neville racked his head for the timetable, but Mark answered before he could remember

"Yeah, we do"

"You already memorised the times for all the classes?" asked Neville in slight disbelief.

"Not at all. Just memorised all the free slots," came the reply. "Need to be sure of when I'm free to participate in certain shenanigans," Mark smirked as he high-fived Fred. They soon found themselves seated at one of the long tables in the kitchens.

"Hey Corky," Mark called out to the familiar elf passing by.

"You wants that salad again Master Smith?" Corky asked in an excited tone. A little too excited.

"Yes please" Mark replied, a reluctant smile on his face. He turned back to face his friends—now looking at him with their mouths hanging open.

"Salad?" Fred finally asked. "Where're the scones, where are the cakes? Where's the cheese? Who are you and what have you done with Mark Smith?"

Mark bit back a clever retort—probably not that clever in the first place. It was better to explain directly.

"Well, I've been put on a strict diet now. Dad and Edwin were right upset by how much I had gained last term," said Mark. Looking at the shocked faces, he continued further, "It's not something monstrous, guys. I'm still allowed everything except sweets during mealtimes. Anytime I feel hungry outside of mealtimes, I get a salad."

"No sweets?" asked Neville after a moment, a sickly expression on his face.

"No. Edwin was rather insistent. No more scones and cakes. No more cheese outside of meals." Looking at the now horrified expression on George's face, Mark gave him a pat on the shoulder.

"Cheer up, boys. It's not actually that bad. I found I rather liked a particularly well-made-salad."

"Particularly-well-made-salad," muttered Fred, "Those words aren't supposed to go together."

"Hey, if it helps me look anything like my Dad in the future, I'm all for it," Mark retorted back. Even though he looked sick than he had in his youth, Mark's Dad was still a head-turner at his age.

"If it's alright with you," said George, munching on a scone, "It's alright with us." Pointing the half-eaten scone at the bowl of green salad in front of Mark he added,

"Just don't expect _us_ to eat _that._"

* * *

19th September 1992

As she rested her head on the soft pillow, Hermione thought back to the wonderful day she had had. She hadn't expected her friends to actually remember her birthday, let alone celebrate it. Her parents, always the practical purists, had pre-packed her birthday card and present inside her trunk, to be opened on the appropriate day today.

Before Hogwarts, Hermione never had any friends. Sure, people were friendly. But they were mostly intimidated or irritated with her. At first, she had believed that there must be something wrong with her. Maybe she was being too nosy about the work others did in school. Perhaps she should just keep quiet and not try and correct others, even though it was plain as day that they were wrong.

Sometimes she thought that others were just being mean to her. They would rather be friends with the pretty girls. She certainly wasn't, not with her large bushy head of hair and a quite noticeable overbite. Nor was she interested in spending her time with gossip and fluffing herself up with makeup and clothes. Being called the 'teacher's pet' certainly didn't help her. So she became an outcast—staying on the fringe—partly by the actions of her peers, and partly by her own choice.

But there was a small sense of sadness within her—of being alone, unwanted. Her parents helped; told her stories of their own childhood. Neither of them had been the popular kid at school. And now, they were both successful professionals—members of a happy family. All Hermione needed to have was patience and hard work. And she believed it.

That was until Professor McGonagall showed up at her doorstep last summer. Suddenly, Hermione had an explanation for her situation. That there was a reason she never fit in with the other kids—because she was a witch. She wasn't just different; she was _different._

Once her initial excitement subsided, fear and logic gripped her again. Given that she had missed out on eleven years of magical life that the other kids at Hogwarts no doubt had, Hermione was at an obvious disadvantage. What would happen when she went to Hogwarts, ignorant and unprepared in the ways of the new world that _she_ was joining? It was her own responsibility, after all, to prepare herself. So, she did. Read the textbooks, bought new ones. Studied everything she could, in the limited time she had. Left no stone unturned.

But as it happened, this school was not that different from her old one. Magical or not, they were still kids. After all, it had been naïve of her to expect something else. Magic hadn't made her more outgoing, nor made her more good-looking. Neither had it changed her attitude towards studying—if only it had now intensified. And even though she tried her hardest to be helpful and friendly, she still got the same reactions from her classmates. A prissy-know-it-all, with bushy-hair and buck-teeth.

By Halloween, she had been done. Crying in that bathroom, she made a silent promise; no longer would she try to be nice and helpful. If the others thought she was a prissy-know-it-all, she would actually do something to deserve that label. Nobody bothered about her. Nobody cared anyway.

But then she had been proved wrong. Faced with certain death—a smelly, disgusting troll swinging its huge club—her legs had turned to lead. In the back of her mind, she was hoping for some professor to arrive in the form of help. There wasn't hope otherwise. But when help arrived, it wasn't any professor. No, it was in the form of two boys. Specifically, the two boys who had been mean to her earlier that day. There to warn her—ended up saving her. They had cared.

After that moment, standing in the bathroom with a body of an unconscious troll at her feet, there was no denying it—she had friends. Those of the strongest kind. Sure, they were not as serious as her about their studies and were more prone to occupy themselves with whatever stupid activities boys like to spend their time doing. But they were true Gryffindors. She had understood what that actually meant on that day, and on the day they had encountered _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_. She had been scared, but neither Ron nor Harry had been.

She wondered what her parents would think of that—their daughter almost getting killed twice in a year. Obviously, she hadn't told them anything—that would have been stupidity, and she was Hermione Granger. Still, she thought about how the differences between them were growing each day she was at Hogwarts.

Being dentists, her parents had planned on doing her braces last year, but coming to Hogwarts meant there weren't enough opportunities for the periodic adjustments. She had enquired about magically adjusting her teeth, which according to Madame Pomfrey was quite easy to do. But her parents were firm on this; no one was touching their daughter's teeth but them. Enough had changed already.

On the train ride to Hogwarts, Hermione had briefly wondered if Harry and Ron had decided to not be friends with her anymore. Maybe they had kept her around out of pity before. Now that they realised how unnecessary she was, they decided to abandon her. But then those two idiots flew a car into Hogwarts and everything was fine again.

Her birthday today had been wonderful. Even though she had remembered and planned a surprise party for Ron's birthday, for some reason she wasn't expecting a party for herself at all. It was a splendid celebration if organised in a slightly haphazard manner.

There was a cake (courtesy of Fred and George Weasley, who wished her "Happy Birthday Hermione Granger, muggle-born"), all her favourite snacks, and the birthday song accompanied with a guitar piece by played by Mark. They all gave her gifts, ranging from chocolate frogs and peppermint toads to an old battered copy of Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_. But she was mainly happy because she now knew she had good friends.

Hermione snuggled further into her bed, trying to hold on to the giddy feeling in her stomach. As her eyes fluttered closed, she remembered the brief and awkward hug Ron gave her, and the wonderful feeling that she had gotten from it.

* * *

AN: Another chapter in, and we're firmly into Year 2! This chapter delves into Hermione's psyche for a bit, something that hadn't happened yet. Her POV's will slowly become prominent, not actively coming into the picture as much in Book One. She's an interesting character, her personality a contrast with both Harry and Mark.

One important point to take note is about Lockhart. As it is evident, his first class **did not** have a demonstration with the Cornish Pixies here, instead moving straight onto the play acting from his books. The main reasoning behind it is that Lockhart is a crook, not an idiot. His every action is a well-rehearsed act, and he would definitely not bring in something he knows he can't handle. JKR's version of Lockhart is a person who is likely delusional; mine is not.

In the coming chapters Harry's role is limited; that is because the arc will focus on Mark more. The next few chapters after those will be opposite, with the arc focusing on Harry more. Given that this is where the divergences begin, Harry will finally get more expanded segments from now on.

As for the chapter upgrade, I'm now finished with both chapter 7 and chapter 8. Chapter 7 had some POV inconsistencies and both had dialogue which could be improved, so I did. Check them out. I think you'll like them.

Content wise, only one point has been added: the mention of Mark's Herpetophobia. I had originally planned on revealing it later, but realised it fit better there in Chapter 7. Other than that, nothing of note had been added.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	25. Colin Creevey

**Colin Creevey**

* * *

14th October 1992

"Heya Harry!"

Harry closed his eyes as he groaned inwardly. Not now, please. Opening his eyes back again, he discreetly looked for the source of the voice that had called out for him, so that he could avoid it and slip by to his dorm instead. He tried covering himself behind Ron's taller frame—all so that he couldn't be spotted by Colin Creevey.

It had been more than a month since term started, and Harry had already had enough of Colin to last him a lifetime. Colin—a muggleborn first-year Gryffindor—had read and heard all about the great Harry Potter before arriving at Hogwarts. Ever since term began, he had taken to following Harry around like a devoted little puppy in between classes and mealtimes—even sitting in the stands during their Quidditch practices and clicking away photos of 'Harry Potter in action.'

On one day, Colin managed to muster his courage and approached Harry to ask him for a signed photograph—just like those celebrities that Aunt Petunia gossiped about. Before Harry could politely refuse him, Malfoy—who had overheard the conversation—dropped in with his usual fresh air, taunting Harry about selling signed photos. If that wasn't enough by itself, Professor Lockhart had to overhear the bloody words 'signed photos' and step in to toot his own horn, insisting Colin take a photograph of them both. This all was too much for Harry; he slipped past both Lockhart and Colin, avoiding them as much as he could ever since.

"Harry!" Colin called out again, waving his arms as he made towards where Harry was; Harry made a mental note to not use Ron as camouflage in the future. Realising it was better to get it over with quickly, he took a deep breath before facing his overexcited fan.

"Yes, Colin?"

Seeing the look of nervousness on Colin's face, Harry began to regret asking that question. If whatever Colin wanted had the boy gripped in nervousness, it wasn't bound to be any good.

"Oh—I was—I was wondering," Colin began, sounding more unsure than he had previously. "I was wondering If I could take that picture of yours? I already developed the one with Professor Lockhart you see, but your face isn't clear enough in that one."

Colin was sounding desperate now, trying hardest to convince Harry. "I want to send it to my dad, you see—and my younger brother—so, can you—"

Harry decided to interrupt him before he could word his request any further.

"I'm sorry Colin, but I really need to be going to—to the library."

Ron looked at Harry incredulously; they had just returned from there, having spent three hours studying Transfiguration with Hermione. He obviously didn't want to go back, but a look from Harry silenced him for the moment. Colin, however, was not discouraged by Harry's excuse.

"Oh, that's great! Can I come too? My dad will love a picture of Harry Potter studying in the library. You don't even need to sign it!"

"I—you don't want to take a picture of me in the library. I'll just be staring at a book, or writing some notes. It'll be the most boring picture possible. Isn't that true Ron?" Harry replied as he kicked Ron in the foot.

"Ow—yeah, yeah. You don't want a picture of Harry studying," said Ron. "He—He dozes off quite a lot. Isn't a pretty sight. He looks like a—like a sleeping iguana."

The instant those words left his mouth, Ron's eyes closed and his face took on an expression of regret. Colin's, on the other hand, took on one of wonder and amazement.

"Iguana? That's so cool! Please, can I—"

Harry turned to Ron with a betrayed expression, and Ron mouthed a silent sorry. Before Colin could rope Harry into a photoshoot, someone interrupted them.

"Hey, Colin! Just the man I wanted to see."

Harry turned to see Mark approach them with a broad smile on his face. He hoped Mark hadn't heard their conversation just now. Mark thumped Colin on the back in friendliness—too much friendliness, Harry observed, and spoke to the boy in his usual casual tone.

"What are you up to? You want to hang out?" Colin, obviously flattered by an older student approaching him, lit-up in excitement.

"Me? Sure. I'll just —" He suddenly remembered what he'd been doing before. "Actually, I was just going to take a photo of Harry —"

"Harry can wait a bit, can't he?" said Mark with a disappointed expression. "Plus, look at him. He looks pretty busy right now." Mark turned to Harry and gave him a discreet wink. Harry grabbed the chance immediately.

"Yeah Colin. I've got a potions essay to finish," said Harry, while Ron nodded along in agreement. "Maybe some other time?"

"Oh. Okay then." Colin's face deflated a bit, but Mark thumped his back again.

"Come on then. Let's go over there"

Harry decided it was best for him to leave the Common room, and return a bit later when it was safer.

"I—um. See you later?" he said awkwardly taking his leave. Colin smiled and waved a bit while Mark got a shit eating grin on his face.

"See you later, _Iguana._"

Harry groaned again and turned on a silently giggling Ron, who quickly stopped and apologised. Harry shook his head. He was never going to live this one down.

* * *

Mark watched with a grin as Harry and Ron walked out of the portrait hole. He was going to have so much fun with that nickname. He wouldn't use it immediately or frequently—No, when Harry would think he had forgotten, when Harry had his guard down—that's when he would come at him with it again.

The very thought of it was so funny that Mark had to shake his head to control his laughter. Turning, he saw Colin again and wondered if his decision was wise. Was it really his place to do this? Was it even necessary?

"So, Colin," Mark began, giving the boy a light thump on the back, "how are you settling in?"

Colin smiled and followed Mark as he gestured for them to sit on the couch.

"Great! It's so amazing here. The classes are wonderful. The teachers are wonderful. Magic is just so—amazing," he said with brimming enthusiasm—something that was usual for the boy. Even now on the couch, he was sitting on the edge had his back arched in attention.

"That's good. You're right, Magic is pretty awesome. I didn't really realise how much I missed it until I was back home for the summer."

"I never really knew all the odd stuff that I could do was magic," said Colin. "That is until I got my letter from Hogwarts. It was such a change, especially from my old school."

"I can understand. I felt the same way actually. You get used to it after a while."

"Really? My dad couldn't believe half the stuff we were told. He had been pretty worried beforehand, with all the odd stuff me and my brother did."

"I guess it was the same with my dad," chuckled Mark. "You know, at first we thought I had superpowers or something. Like the ones in the comics—you know, X-Men and the like." Colin nodded his head in recognition. "You said you have a brother?" asked Mark, remembering Colin's words. "Is he magical too?"

"Dennis. He's almost two years younger than me," said Colin. "About him being magical—he's done some accidental magic but we can't really be sure until we get the letter, can we? He was pretty excited to see Diagon Alley, you know. Wanted to meet Harry Potter, once we read about who he was and what he'd done. That's what I was hoping for—a photo to send to Dennis and my Dad."

"That's good," said Mark. He decided to change the subject. "What class do you like the best so far?"

Colin scratched his chin in a thoughtful manner, furrowing his brows in concentration.

"It's difficult to say. Astronomy is great. I never knew that it could be so fun. Charms is also pretty good, so it's difficult to decide. Plus, there's Professor Lockhart. He's done so much so great stuff."

"Yeah, Charms is pretty good. As for Professor Lockhart, I don't know. Seems just okay to me."

"Well he isn't as great as Harry Potter now, is he?" retorted Colin, before he realised something. "You must know all about Harry, wouldn't you, sharing a dorm with him."

Mark became distinctly uncomfortable at this. It looked like he would have to go through with his initial plan after all. There was no easy way to do this, and the sooner he explained it to Colin, the better it would be for everyone involved.

"Yeah, Harry's cool. Listen," Mark said, before looking Colin in the eye. "There's something I think I should tell you. It's a bit serious, and I would appreciate if you hear me out."

"Of course," Colin replied eagerly. Taking a slow breath, Mark continued.

"Good. Now, what do you know about Voldemort?" Colin's face lost all sign of enthusiasm at this, and Mark could see a subtle fear creep in.

"Vol—you said his name."

"I did. Met him too. Not particularly what you'd call a pleasant personality," Mark said dismissively. "Now what do you know about him and Harry?"

Colin seemed to be struggling between answering the question and processing the new information Mark had inadvertently dumped on him.

"I … You-Know-Who tried to kill Harry and then he died and that's how Harry got his scar. That's what everyone told me. Wait, you _met_ him? You-Know-Who is _alive_?"

"Kind of. That's irrelevant right now. Now, how old do you think Harry was when all of that happened?"

Colin was taking short breaths right now, any trace of his usual excitement gone. Scrunching his forehead, he answered Mark.

"He was a baby—what, a year old?"

The moment he finished, Colin seemed to realise the significance of his answer.

Mark nodded seriously at this, his eyes now boring into Colin's.

"Yeah. What else happened that night?"

"His parents—they—they died."

Colin whispered the last part, the purpose of this conversation now clear to him.

"Yes. Harry lost both his parents."

Colin's head dropped in shame, but Mark continued on.

"Look at me, Colin." The boy raised his head reluctantly, eyes filled with regret and sorrow. Mark decided to drive his point home. "Harry isn't some great hero who vanquished the Dark Lord. He's a _survivor_ of an attack on his family."

"But—but," he spluttered momentarily, before deciding to stay silent. Mark, who _gleaned_ into Colin's mind, answered the unasked question.

"The whole boy-who-lived thing? Harry isn't fond of it. I get that you want to make friends with him, but you need to remember this—He's more than a scar."

Realising Mark's point, Colin nodded to himself before answering seriously.

"You're right. I will."

Mark gave the mousy haired boy a smile and decided that he had got his message across successfully. Time to lighten the mood.

"Great. Now, that camera of yours," he said, pointing towards the old-fashioned camera hanging by Colin's neck, "Is it magical? How does it work?"

Colin's face bounced back at this, jumping into bubbling enthusiasm once more.

"Oh, it's so amazing. It's got a different film, and if you use a special potion, the pictures move! Can you believe that! I always wanted to be a photographer, and I saw this at Diagon Alley. My dad was sceptical of it at first, but I convinced him to buy it. He's a milkman you see, and—" Colin continued to tell Mark all about his life before Hogwarts, along with all the fun experimentation that he had done so far with his new camera.

Mark found himself drawn into the conversation, occasionally asking Colin for clarifications on the workings of magical and muggle photography. Colin was quite content in answering Mark's queries, and soon they found themselves lost in conversation, with Mark telling Colin about the internal workings of Electric Guitars and amplifiers.

It was when a flash of brilliant red moved in the corner of his eye that Mark's attention was interrupted. He turned towards it, seeing the youngest Weasley entering the common room and heading for the staircase for the girl's dorms.

"Hey, Ginny."

Ginny was apparently lost in thought, as she nearly jumped at the greeting, a small amount of panic gracing her face momentarily. Turning towards the couch, she saw Mark.

"Huh? — Oh hello," said Ginny. "Hi Colin," she added after a moment.

Mark observed Ginny. Any signs of the cheerful and energetic person he had met on the Express seemed to have disappeared.

"You alright? You look a little pale."

Ginny looked alarmed at this for a moment, her eyes darting around uncomfortably.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine"

"You sure don't look fine. Trouble sleeping?"

Ginny's face showed signs of irritation at being interrogated like this, her eyes looking slightly red in anger—as if the flames from the fireplace seemed to reflect off of them.

"Yeah. That's right. It's difficult sleeping here. Just used to being at home," she answered Mark in a dismissive tone.

"I can understand. How are your classes? Anything I can help you with?"

Ginny's face softened at this, a small smile creeping in.

"Good. It's quite fun actually." Ginny looked at Mark and added warmly. "Don't worry, I'm not having any difficulties. And if I can always ask my friends for help." Mark smiled back at this.

"That's good to hear. Friends are great. Still, you'll let me know if you need any help, right?"

Ginny nodded and motioned to leave for her room.

"Sure. Goodbye, Mark."

"Bye," Mark said and gave her a little wave. As he watched her disappear up the stairs, he pondered a little on Ginny.

It was good that Ginny had made friends at school. She was quite distressed about that matter on the Express, so it was great that she didn't have to worry about it any longer.

He wondered which student she had made friends with.

* * *

17th October 1992

"Where—" Ginny squinted as she opened her eyes. She must have been sleeping. Looking around, she realised that she was in the abandoned girl's bathroom on the first floor.

'That's odd,' she thought. She didn't remember going to the bathroom. The last she remembered—

What did she remember? It all felt like a dream. Was she sleepwalking? She had been having these blackouts recently, but Tom was sure they were just due to the stress of the new school.

Deciding that it wasn't wise to stay seated on the cold bathroom floor, Ginny stood up and brushed her robes with her hands. Only they found something unexpected.

Feathers. She was covered with them, and as she looked around, she saw the bathroom floor littered with them. Picking one to examine it closer, she recognised it to be from a chicken—specifically a rooster. Ginny had spent enough time cleaning the coop at the Burrow to know the difference.

The question was, where had they come from? Was this somehow related to the blackouts she was having? Taking her wand in her hand, Ginny cleaned the bathroom floor of all the litter. It was a nifty spell that Tom had taught her, and she wished she could use it at home to help with her chores.

Once she and the bathroom were cleared of the feathers, Ginny decided to head back to the common room and to her bed. There was no reason to linger around any longer, especially since it was after curfew.

Tom had told her about many of the secret passageways that she could use to avoid the patrolling prefects. It wouldn't do good to be caught lurking around in the night, especially by someone like Percy.

Tom. Ginny was really glad that she found Tom. In a way, he was her closest friend, and slowly becoming her closest confidante. He was really brilliant. He helped her with her homework, and gave her advice about anything and everything. Apart from her schoolwork, he had even taught her some nifty and useful stuff—things that were even outside the curriculum at Hogwarts.

Ginny wondered if it would have been better if he was a real live person; but then perhaps it was better that he was just the way he was. She wouldn't have met him otherwise.

It had been just after their trip to Diagon Alley that she found him. Hiding inside her Transfiguration textbook, completely inconspicuous. A little black leather Diary, with a faded name on top—Tom Marvolo Riddle.

At first, that was exactly what Ginny thought it was. Just a plain old diary. Oh, how wrong she was. It was when she wrote in it that he had answered. Nothing special. Just a simple greeting.

_Hello. My name is Tom, and this is my diary. What is your name?_

Of course, Ginny was surprised—after all, diaries weren't supposed to talk back. Yet, this one did. Hesitantly, she answered it—him. And she was glad she did.

He told her how he was a student here at Hogwarts, some fifty years ago. How he had decided to store his memories in this diary, enchant it so that it could help another student during their time at Hogwarts. So that the student not feel as alone as he had been then.

That was what drew Ginny to him—his willingness to help cure her loneliness, and the obvious effort and time that he must have put in enchanting the diary so that it could help others. It was obviously a brilliant piece of magic—other than the limitations of the medium, Ginny had found no sign of the diary being anything other than a person. To be honest, recently it felt as if it was even transcending those limitations—she could almost feel him when they talked.

He was kind, he was funny. He was thoughtful and he was wise. He was patient and most importantly, he listened to her. It was like having a best friend that you could carry with you—talk to whenever you wished to. Pocketing her hands, she ran her fingers down the spine of the Diary stored in her robes.

She would have to write—no, _tell_ Tom about the feathers once she reached her room. She wondered what he would make of it.

* * *

AN: Another chapter done! A simple one, with the introduction of two interesting characters—Colin Creevey and Tom Riddle. The action picks up again in the next chapter, so stay tuned for that.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	26. Secrets of Hogwarts

**Secrets of Hogwarts**

* * *

19th October 1992

The stone floor swept beneath his feet as Mark swiftly made his way towards the seventh floor. It was after curfew, and the prefects would soon begin to prowl around making their rounds. But that wouldn't be for another half-an-hour—enough time for Mark to check up on something that had struck him late last night.

By now he had made countless trips to the Come-and-Go Room, or as he liked to call it, the Room of Requirement. Given that Corky had told him that the Room became whatever he wished it to be, Mark had tried asking virtually everything of it—a swimming pool, a billiards table, a full-fledged gym (no treadmills, obviously), a complete wood-working shop, a replica of his own bedroom in London, and the restricted section of the library. It could make secret pathways to any other part of the castle—something Mark used to surreptitiously return to Gryffindor Tower with ease—and conjure anything that didn't break any of the exceptions to Gamp's Law of elemental transfiguration.

But what was it like if you didn't ask it anything? What was it when no one was around? An empty room? Another hidden library? A secret treasury? A special room that said—Congratulations on finding the secret achievement?

Or perhaps even the room itself was a conjuration—coming only into existence when asked for. In any case, Mark wanted to find out today. As he turned around the corner and headed for the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, he mentally prepared himself to word his request to the room.

'I need to know what the Room normally looks like; I need to know what the Room normally looks like; I need to know what the Room normally looks like —' Mark began to mentally chant as he paced in front of the wall where the door usually appeared. He was half-expecting nothing to happen, and that all of this was just his overthinking. But he was wrong, for a door did appear. A simple wooden door with a blackened brass handle—smaller and plainer than what appeared when he had asked for anything else. Mark stood in shock, unable to decide whether he actually wanted to see what was behind the door now that it was in front of him. Hesitantly he checked the corridor for any prefects. Empty. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and stepped inside, his eyes eager to take in what he was about to see.

Darkness. Pitch black darkness. Taking his wand out of the waistband of his pyjamas, he held it high.

'Lumos,' he thought—he could do this spell non-verbally now. Incanting spells aloud was something that his naturally lazy mind considered stupid and useless. It worked, and the tip of the wand lit up in a bright white glow, illuminating his surroundings faintly.

Mark furrowed his eyebrows as he looked around. There were old chairs, desks and multitude of boxes stacked everywhere around him. He approached one of them to look inside—old textbooks, broken quills, a shiny chocolate frog card. A bizarre collection of items that could be home inside any Hogwarts student's bag. He waved his wand around and saw even more piles—there was a small stack of robes on one side, a couple of broomsticks on the other. As he raised his wand higher, he saw that these piles were stacked high—much higher than he would have imagined. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered just how this stack of things—easily fifteen feet high—was standing straight and stable. To his left, he could see a narrow pathway between these stacks, and as he peered along its length, he could see even more stacks flanking it on both sides. Just how much stuff was here?

"I need more light—to see the room clearly," muttered Mark. Bright, white lights lit up in an instant, flooding the room and making Mark squint his eyes close. After a few moments, once his eyes had adjusted, he looked. The first thing that struck him was the fact that the lights were high up on the ceiling—a particularly high ceiling, easily twice as tall as the Great Hall. It was like he was standing in an aeroplane hangar—made for one big bloody plane.

Making a split decision, Mark grabbed the old broom in front of him and mounted it—he needed to gain some elevation to see exactly what was in this room. As the broom floated up, a small fear crawled up his back. He hadn't actually checked if the broom was safe—not that he even knew how. All he needed now was a stupid fall like the on Neville had had at that flying lesson.

"What the —"

To say the room was huge would be an understatement. The Great Hall was huge. This room was easily three times that size. And it was stored full with things. It was like a small town or slum—there were pathways running between the piles in order to navigate the room, cutting the entire layout in a labyrinth of the storage monster. The stuff was old—like really, really old. One of the dresses that Mark noticed lying on the top of a pile was easily from before the times of Queen Elizabeth—the first Queen Elizabeth.

This was some form of a lost and found cum general storeroom. The things that were here—there was no telling what he might end up finding. As he floated back down, Mark began to ponder what he might do with this new information. As far as he knew, only the elves were actually aware of this place. It must have been them who stored all this stuff here.

From a logical perspective, the best way to proceed would be to take a proper inventory of everything—arrange everything by category rather than the bloody chaos that it was now. If he could give a couple of hours every week, they would be more than enough to go through all of this—after all, he still had five more years at Hogwarts. If he found anything particularly interesting, he would keep it for himself. Sort of a finder's fee. It could be an interesting side-project.

Mark nodded to himself. This was a good plan. Inventory and archive everything in here—just like one would do for a forgotten treasure. Perhaps he should have a chat with Corky beforehand—know what the elves position was on all this. In any case, he needed to be prepared before his next visit. A better, sturdier broom, a notebook to write everything down. Figure out some way to map the room—also mark and separate everything that was already catalogued. Yes, this needed some preparation.

As for when—he decided on Saturday nights. If he got late, he could just sleep in the next morning. In any case, all he would need to do is sneak up here—while going back, he could just ask the room for an exit near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

Mark nodded once again. Yes, this was going to be an interesting side-project indeed.

* * *

31st October 1992

_THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED._

_ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE._

Harry stared at the writing of the wall in stunned silence. The words were shining slightly, owing to the shimmering light cast by the flaming torches.

"What's that? Look, there—hanging underneath" Hermione pointed to a dark shadow below the torch bracket. Ron squinted through the darkness but was unable to determine the figure. As they edged nearer, they almost lost their footing, slipping on the puddle of water under their feet.

They held onto one another and continued on until they saw what they were looking for—it was Mrs Norris, Filch's beloved cat, hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. As they processed the sight before them, Harry wondered exactly how he had found himself in this situation.

It had been a week earlier when Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost, had invited Harry and friends to his five hundredth deathday party. Harry—feeling a bit sorry for the kind ghost—had agreed to attend the party in place of the Halloween feast in the Great Hall. As usual, Hermione had been thrilled at having the opportunity to witness such a 'fascinating event', while Ron felt it was a dead waste of time. In the end, both accompanied Harry to the party tonight.

A party was a rather tame term for it, as it was a collection of the most bizarre things they had ever seen. Given that they studied at a school for magic, that was saying something. It was being held in one of the roomier dungeons of the castle. It was cold, damp and uncomfortable—in hindsight, exactly the kind of place a ghost would host a party. Dozens of other ghosts were in attendance, both from within Hogwarts and from outside. A few were playing some instruments in the corner as part of the orchestra—Harry refused to recognise the ear-splitting screeches they were producing as music.

There was a feast of course, fit for a king. The food consisted of rotting fish, burnt cakes, maggoty haggis, mouldy cheese, and an enormous grey cake—likely stale—shaped like a tombstone. Dead king, perhaps.

They also met some interesting people. Moaning Myrtle, the ghost of a girl who haunted the girl's bathroom on the second floor—the one they were now standing outside of—was at the party as well. Hermione told them how Myrtle was the reason that the bathroom was always out of order—the crying ghost kept throwing tantrums, flooding all the toilets in the process. This little bit of gossip cost Hermione though, for the mischievous Peeves overheard their conversation and told about it to Myrtle, who began crying again.

If all that wasn't enough, the Headless Hunt arrived soon after, playing a game called Head Hockey. It was pretty much what it sounded like. Harry smartened himself upon their arrival—it was the primary reason he was invited by Nearly Headless Nick to the party. Nick had been applying for years to join the hunt—a group of ghosts exclusive to spirits that had been properly beheaded when they were alive. But Nearly Headless wasn't Fully Headless, and his application was always rejected. That's where Harry came in; his job was to act intimidated by Nick's presence so that the Hunt could be convinced of the ghost's worthiness. Harry tried, and so did Ron and Hermione, but they weren't convinced by three kids.

After that, they decided that they had witnessed enough ghostly activities for the evening. Hoping to catch some dessert from the other, edible feast, they began to walk towards the Great Hall with their rumbling stomachs. They almost made it—reaching near the steps to the entrance hall—when Harry heard the eerie voice again.

"_… __rip … tear … kill …_"

He had heard that voice before, in that same cold murderous tone a few weeks ago. He had been in detention with Professor Lockhart, helping him answer all his fan mail late in the evening. At first, he had thought it to be a trick played by his mind. After all, Lockhart didn't hear a single thing. Only Harry had heard it then, and only Harry heard it now. When Harry told them about it, both Ron and Hermione looked at him as if he'd grown a second head.

"_… __soo hungry … so long … kill … time to kill …_"

Kill. That had been the clincher. Someone was going to kill, and Harry had to stop it before it did. He began to sprint up the stairs, tracking the voice, shouting at Hermione and Ron to follow him. He ran, he ran. And he ended up here, in front of this wall with painted with a mysterious message.

"We should leave," said Ron. Harry turned towards him—his voice was sombre, his face pale.

"Maybe we should try and help —" Hermione began awkwardly, but Ron interrupted again.

"No. Trust me, we _don't_ want to be found here."

Harry found himself nodding in agreement. Whatever this was—it wasn't good. Before they could move away, however, the sound of chattering students filled in the corridor. The feast had ended, and the students were leaving the Great Hall.

Within minutes, the corridor became packed with students—students who, on seeing the hanging cat, fell into complete silence. No one spoke for a few moments, as everyone stood in shock. Finally, a voice broke out from the crowd, its tone menacing and hateful. It was Draco Malfoy.

"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

* * *

4th November 1992

"Professor, can you tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

Ron watched in amazement as Hermione's words silenced the class and drew all attention to her. Even the usually unfazed (and ghostly) Professor Binns just blinked in surprise. Ron knew Hermione was desperate to know more about the chamber, but he didn't think she would actually ask Binns about it.

Now, even though a few days had passed since Halloween and their discovery of the ominous message about the Chamber, the whole school was still fraught with wild rumours and gossip. Everyone was on an edge; such a direct threat had never been made before—not in anyone's memory. Though the matter of pure-blood supremacy was something everyone in the magical world recognised, propounding it like this was in not considered appropriate.

On top of it, there was the attack on Mrs Norris—many students had been disturbed by the fate of the cat. Professor Dumbledore had assured them that the cat wasn't dead—just petrified. The cure would be a Mandrake Restorative Draught, brewed once the baby Mandrakes in greenhouse matured. So, there wasn't actually a chance of permanent damage—but that wasn't enough to stub out the slowly spreading panic. After all, there had been an attack, and it could be a student next.

To be honest, Ron didn't care much for the devil of the cat. Although he felt a sliver of sympathy for Filch, the fact that the blasted cat would not hunt them for loitering around was something refreshing to think about. Hermione had chided him when he had said that out loud, calling him 'insensitive towards the plight of animals.'

Of the three of them, Hermione had been the one affected the most. She didn't show it of course; Even when Harry Hermione and he had discussed what the message on the wall could actually mean, she had talked in her usual clinical manner, showing no sign of being disturbed by it. But it was the little things—changes in her general behaviour that Ron noticed. She was always on edge—jumping slightly back when surprised, clutching her books and bag closer to herself when walking, and being more reserved and lost in her thoughts when she was around them. She was spending all her free time in the library—something she hadn't done before until it was a week before the exams.

Ron had initially thought that she was just nervous, unsure of what to do in such a time—scared even. But he had been wrong, as he found out earlier today. Turned out, Hermione Granger wasn't someone who hid in the library when she was scared. No, she hadn't been hiding—instead she had spent the past few days ring to scour the library for any reference to the Chamber of Secrets. She even remembered reading a small section about it in _Hogwarts a History_. She had been trying to get her hands on of the copies in the library since she had left her own back at home. Nobody had ever said that Hermione Granger was anything but persistent.

It was the thing Ron secretly admired in her—he would never tell it to her, of course. As much as she was persistent, most of her efforts were directed at him and Harry. It irritated Ron to no end when she kept nagging him about his schoolwork—but he admired her for it nonetheless.

Professor Binns—still partly in shock from Hermione's question—shook his head before answering.

"My subject, Miss Grant, is History of Magic," Binns wheezed, his voice dry. "In it, we rely on facts, not legends or myths, understood? Now, back to the —"

Ron turned to see what had caught Binns attention. At the back of the class, a single hand was raised in the air—Mark's. Given that the boy usually slumbered through the class—yet still getting an E on the tests—everyone, including Professor Binns, was surprised to see him awake and attentive.

"Yes, Mr —?"

"Smith, sir. I have a question—wouldn't you say that myths and legends have some factual basis for their existence? After all, this isn't some grandmother's tale we're talking about, are we? Madam Bagshot even mentions it in _Hogwarts: A History_."

Ron found himself nodding along with the rest of the class as they turned back to look at Professor Binns.

"You could argue that I suppose," said the ghostly professor, scratching his non-corporeal chin in deep thought. Yet, after a moment, he returned back to his dismissiveness. "But the legend of the chamber is so ludicrous that it cannot possibly be true."

He was about to return to the lecture on the convention of 1289 when he noticed his usually dull students rapt in attention.

"Very well then," he grumbled as he put the chalk down on the table. "Hmmm. You all know that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago—the exact year is a matter of debate. That is irrelevant for our discussion." Coming back to the story, he continued, "Hogwarts was founded by four of the greatest warlocks of that time—Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, and lastly Salazar Slytherin."

"For a few years, the founders cooperated with each other, their concern primarily being to seek out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle for protection and education—for this was an age when magic was feared by the muggles, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution for showing any signs of it." Taking a pause Binns added, "This we know for a fact."

"After a few decades, since the school was established, a rift began to grow between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. There are few documents which reference this—their authenticity debatable," he waved his hand dismissively. "Anyway, Lord Slytherin was of the opinion that entry to the school be restricted, and their admittance selective." Looking at the confused faces on some of the students, Binns elaborated further. "He believed that magical learning should be kept within the known magical families, since the students of Muggle parentage were likely to be untrustworthy."

"This was, in effect, quite opposite to the beliefs of Lady Helga. Some sources say that during the founding of the school, she had campaigned for squibs and even open-minded muggles to be allowed admittance—but that is mostly conjecture," Binns droned on.

Ron listened in rapt attention—even though he had grown up in the wizarding world, all of this was news to him. Why wasn't Binns teaching all of this in his normal classes? Who cared about some stupid rebellions?

"Lord Godric," continued Binns as he paced—or rather floated—around in front of the classroom, "who by now was a supporter of Lady Helga and her position on the matter, defended her when the argument turned explosive. The exact argument is unknown, for there is a possibility other matters may have been involved, but not recorded. In any case, the argument concluded with Lord Slytherin leaving the castle for good."

"Now this is all that historical sources tell us—ones that are reliable anyways," Binns said. "But these facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Lord Slytherin—who had been in charge of the construction of the castle—built a hidden chamber which the others knew nothing about."

"According to the legend, Slytherin, when he left the school, sealed the Chamber of Secrets by magical means so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. This heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber, and unleash the horror within, using it to purge the school of all the untrustworthy."

There was silence as he finished the story, but not the one usually found in his class. There was unease in the air as everyone looked to the professor, hoping for more.

"This whole legend has no basis in any facts, just a story passed on through the times," he said. "As for the Chamber; well the whole school has been searched for its existence many, many, times. And by the most learned witches, wizards and the most famous Cursebreakers. It does not exist. Just a tale told to frighten the gullible."

By its own volition, Ron's hand went up in the air. Every eye in the room was soon upon him.

"Sir—what exactly did you mean by the 'horror within' the Chamber?" Ron asked. He found his throat was rather parched. The whole class now turned back to look at Binns, who seemed hesitant to answer.

"There is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir alone can control," said Professor Binns dismissively.

"Wouldn't it be dead already, after a thousand years?" Mark interrupted; his hands folded. "Assuming it existed in the first place."

"That is _irrelevant_ Schmidt," Binns said as he shuffled through his notes. "There is no monster, as there is no Chamber."

"But sir," Seamus interrupted, "if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin's true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?"

"Nonsense, O'Flaherty." Professor Binns was now aggravated. "If a long succession of Hogwarts Heads—the greatest witches and wizards of their times, haven't found a thing —"

"But, Professor," Parvati Patil piped in, "you'd probably have to use Dark Magic to open it —" But Binns had had enough.

"Miss Pennyfeather!" Binns had had enough. "Just because a wizard _doesn't_ use Dark Magic does not mean he _can't_," he snapped. "If the likes of Dumbledore haven't found the Chamber, then it does not exist. No further questions."

* * *

AN: There we have it. Another chapter done, and the mystery officially begins. I have taken some liberties with the lore of Hogwarts and the Room of Requirement, things that just made sense to me. I hope you like them as well.

As for the upgrading, Chapters 9, 10, and 11 are done. They've turned out pretty good, especially the parts about Harry. They all were a bit iffy before—I had been in a hurry to get to the good parts. Now after reflection, I've managed to pump in some life in them. Content wise, I've added a short description of Quidditch rules—something that I had also skipped in the previous version. Now that I've decided to make the story more robust for the fandom blind, I needed to include them.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	27. Going Rogue

**Going Rogue**

* * *

7th November 1992

Harry sat in the infirmary, his arm flapping around like a noodle. He never thought he could have hated someone as much as he hated Lockhart right now.

The match against Slytherin today was something that they had been looking forward to for weeks. Wood had been even more aggressive during the practices this year since they had missed the Quidditch Cup last year. Harry had his own reasons to win; Draco Malfoy was the seeker opposite him, and Harry sorely wanted an opportunity to wipe the smug smile off the Slytherin's face.

The moment the match began, Harry quickly flew higher than everyone else. It was a new strategy Wood had him practice—get a broader view of the entire field from higher up in the air to find the Snitch faster and avoid being tailed. It would have worked well on a good day, but today hadn't been one of them.

It began to rain just minute into the match, affecting the general visibility on the field. Although it affected all players equally, it was slightly worse for Harry since he was a Seeker. On top of it, the Slytherin team quickly gained a lead of sixty points; equipped with Nimbus 2001s, their Chasers were easily dominating the match. This only raised the stakes further on Harry—at this rate, he would have to catch the Snitch as fast as possible to have any chance of a Gryffindor win.

But fate was not on Harry's side, and it pushed him to his limit. It happened when Malfoy approached him in the air—zooming around to show off the speed of his broom. When Harry gave no visible reaction, Malfoy resorted to one of his unimaginative taunts. Harry didn't even get a chance to reply, for at that very moment Harry spotted a Bludger heading straight at him. He managed to dodge it in time to see George chasing it, his Beater's bat in hand. Harry saw him smack the Bludger at one of the Slytherin players, but for some reason, it didn't work. Moments after being hit by George, the Bludger turned mid-flight and headed straight back at Harry. Harry dodged it again, and George whacked it once more, this time towards Malfoy. Yet, the Bludger still returned, swerving like a boomerang.

This wasn't normal—as far as Harry knew, Bludgers were supposed to pursue and unseat as many people as possible, not concentrate on a single player like this.

Deciding to put some distance between himself and the heavy ball chasing him, Harry leaned forward and zoomed off towards the other end of the field. He dodged and weaved through the other players—mainly Slytherin—in an inspired effort to lose the Bludger in between. It didn't work, and the Bludger still focused on just him, whistling along behind like a bullet with his name written on it.

In a last-ditch hope, Harry headed towards Fred, who was lying in wait for the Bludger to appear. With a huge swing, the Gryffindor beater hit the Bludger with a loud crack. The blow should have thrown the Bludger back to the other end of the field. But it didn't. The Bludger still returned, as if magnetically attracted to Harry.

It was obvious that the Bludger was tampered with, so they called for a time-out. Madam Hooch, sceptical of their claim, checked the Bludgers for any signs of tampering. She found none. A more thorough investigation could have been carried out, but that would have required Gryffindor to forfeit the current match. Given that Slytherin had a lead of eighty points by now, Harry had insisted that Fred and George concentrate on keeping the other Bludger off the chasers. He would deal with the rogue one on his own. They had objected at first, but after Harry managed to convince Wood, they had to grudgingly accept.

A small part of Harry had wanted to believe that the Bludger would leave him alone; of course, that wasn't the case. The moment he was back in the air, Harry had been forced to do loopbacks and twirls and all sorts of ridiculous manoeuvring just to avoid the ball hell-bent on pursuing him. Weaving through the field like an errant fly, Harry narrowly kept ahead of the Bludger at all times.

Harry did have an advantage; unlike him, the Bludger was small and heavy, unable to perform sharp turns due to its momentum. Harry exploited it as much as he could, even briefly managing to increase the distance between himself and the pursuing Bludger. His decision to handle the Bludger by himself did pay off, as the Gryffindor team managed to reduce Slytherin's lead by thirty points.

That was when Harry had seen it; The Golden Snitch, hovering just behind Malfoy's ear, who was too busy trying to ridicule Harry's manoeuvres.

A smirk appeared on Harry's face as he shot straight at Malfoy; the sheer terror that gripped Malfoy's face on seeing Harry barrelling straight at him with a Bludger in tow was a sight that Harry happily etched in his mind.

It was a perfect ending to an enthralling match; at least for everybody else. The moment Harry's hand closed around the Snitch, he heard a loud, sickening crack. It took a moment for Harry to register where it had come from, but the sharp pain that soon shot up his arm was a clear indicator. The Bludger had rammed into his outstretched arm, breaking the bone instantly.

It was a mixed feeling; there was the pain, obviously, from the broken arm. There was also relief, as Harry miraculously managed to land on the pitch without further injury. There was some joy—Gryffindor had managed to win the match. But for Harry, there was a sense of accomplishment. He had managed to outfly Malfoy, managed to outmanoeuvre a seemingly rogue Bludger out for his blood—at least for most of the match—and most importantly, he had managed to swipe the Snitch right from under Malfoy's nose.

Soon, amidst the cheers and the euphoria, the pain from the broken arm dulled Harry's senses—something he shouldn't have let happen in hindsight. In the haze of the pain, he remembered Wood and the others cheering him, awaiting Madam Pomfrey's arrival. Harry remembered Lockhart arriving, and claiming that he could mend the bone. He remembered trying to protest, saying he would rather wait for Madam Pomfrey. But Lockhart had insisted on doing the spell himself, waving off Harry's concerns.

What Harry did know for sure was this—one moment he had a human looking arm, the next he had a flesh noodle attached to his shoulder; instead of healing it, Lockhart had vanished all the bones in Harry's arm.

"Well, the bones are no longer broken," Lockhart had said, before disappearing off somewhere.

If Harry was being honest, it was probably a good thing that Lockhart removed the bones from his arm; Harry might have actually strangled the man in anger.

* * *

Harry cursed inwardly as he opened his eyes. It was dark—near midnight perhaps. He squinted in the darkness to take a look at his arm; it wasn't exactly difficult—the excruciating waves of pain rolling off his injury pointed Harry's gaze in the right direction. Immobilized in the cast, Harry could feel the Skele-Grow doing its job inside his arm. He could literally feel splinters of bone growing inside the flesh; something Harry would have found disgusting in normal circumstances. He wondered if the pain from his arm was what had woken him. Then, he suddenly felt something on his forehead.

"Aah," he cried out in surprise. Looking around, Harry noticed large eyeballs peering at him through the darkness—eyeballs he had seen once before in Privet Drive.

"Dobby?!"

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed that the house-elf looked devastated. A single tear was running down its long, pointed nose.

"Harry Potter came back to school," Dobby whispered miserably. "Dobby warned Harry Potter again and again, sir. Why didn't you heed Dobby, Harry Potter? Why did you not go home when you missed the train?"

Harry tried sitting up, pushing down on the pillows. It was difficult to move when his arm was trapped in a sling.

"What are you doing here Dobby?" Harry turned towards the elf. "And how did you find out that I missed the train?" he asked after a moment.

Dobby's eyes darted around, trying to avoid Harry's gaze. Realisation dawned on Harry.

"You did it," he said slowly. "You made the barrier stop Ron and me from getting onto the Platform!"

"Dobby did, sir," replied the elf, nodding his head vigorously, his large bat-like ears flapping. "Dobby lay in wait for Harry Potter to arrive and sealed the gateway before he entered. Dobby did not mean to trouble Harry Potter's Wheezy, sir."

The elf then held both his arms in front of him. Harry noticed that they had been bandaged with dirty linen.

"Dobby had to iron his hands afterwards, sir, but Dobby didn't care, for Dobby thought Harry Potter was now safe. Never did Dobby dream Harry Potter would get to school another way." Dobby finished, his body rocking back and forth.

Looking at Dobby's fingers made Harry sick. They were ironed? And Dobby did that to himself? Harry knew about Dobby punishing himself for going against his master's wishes, but he wouldn't have imagined something like this. Still, the elf had gotten him into trouble, and Harry tried to reluctantly chide him for his actions.

"You nearly got Ron and me expelled, Dobby. You know what it's like for me at the Dursleys. I can't lose Hogwarts, Dobby."

"But you mustn't be here, sir! It is not safe for you! Dobby was so shocked to know that Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts, Dobby let his master's dinner burn! Dobby never had such a flogging before!"

Harry slumped back onto his pillows. Hearing dobby speak of his life brought unpleasant memories to the surface.

"Does that happen often? You—getting punished like that?"

Dobby smiled weakly but remained silent.

Realising that he wasn't going to get any answers like this, Harry decided to take charge of the conversation.

"Why are you here now Dobby?" Harry asked. "Your plan clearly failed. I made it to Hogwarts."

"Ah, but Harry Potter got hurt in the match. You see sir, tis' not safe for you here."

"It was a rogue Bludger. That doesn't happen usually—" Harry saw a brief gleam of victory in Dobby's large eyes, and his suspicions were aroused.

"Wait a second! You tampered the Bludger!"

Harry's accusation broke through and Dobby's face fell.

"Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to—"

"To what? Kill me?" Harry was mad. "If my arm wasn't in this sling right now—"

"No! No!" Dobby wailed, "Not kill you, sir, never kill you!" Dobby wrung his hand on the pillow cover that he was wearing. "Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Grievously injure, yes. But only enough to be sent home!" he pleaded.

"Oh, is that all?" said Harry angrily. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?"

"If only you knew sir, if only you knew!" Dobby's tears were flowing freely now. An odd expression gripped his face; a mix of sorrow and fear. Turning to Harry the elf started to explain.

"Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was powerful, sir. Dobby remembers how the house-elves were treated then. We house-elves, we the lowly, the enslaved, the dregs of the magical world!" Dobby clasped his hands in front of himself as if praying to some invisible deity. "Before the Dark Lord's power was broken, the house-elves were forced to serve his supporters, sir. Treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that."

"But when Harry Potter survived! Oh, it was a new dawn, sir! You shone like a beacon of hope! The old masters were taken away, and the lives of house-elves bettered."

Unwillingly, Harry found himself drawn into Dobby's story. He'd always felt that the people were exaggerating his role when they spoke of those times. The way Dobby told it… Was it really that bad before?

His thoughts were interrupted when Dobby continued.

"But now… bad things are happening again sir. Evil plots sir, the most evil plots—things no decent wizard —" he trailed off. Looking into Harry's eyes, Dobby spoke directly to him.

"This is why Harry Potter must leave! He is the hope for the house-elves, for all of us. Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more —"

Dobby froze; his face gripped in horror. Swiftly he moved to Harry's bedside table and grabbed the water jug that was kept on it before cracking it over his head. The blow toppled him on the floor, the water spilling everywhere. Harry heard the elf mutter "Bad dobby… bad dobby…" between soft sobs.

"So, the Chamber of Secrets? It's real then?" Harry whispered. That was what Dobby was trying to warn about all this time? Suddenly Harry remembered something that Dobby had said.

"Wait—you said it's been opened before. When? Who?"

"Please, Harry Potter, go home." Dobby looked at Harry tiredly. "'tis too dangerous, sir. Dobby begs you, please…"

Harry wasn't giving up lightly. Dobby knew about the chamber—had known, even in the summer.

"I'm not muggleborn, Dobby—How can I be in danger from the Chamber?"

"Do not ask this of Dobby, sir, ask no more of poor Dobby." He climbed on to Harry's bed. "The dark deeds that are planned—Harry Potter will be in danger—you will be in danger."

"You know who's opened the chamber?" Harry was desperate now. With his good hand, he gripped Dobby's arm. "Tell me Dobby! I can help. Tell me! One of my best friends is a muggle-born. If what you're saying is true, she'll be in danger, more so than me!"

An expression of understanding dawned on Dobby's face.

"Harry Potter is too noble. He thinks of his friends, even when Harry Potter's own life is in danger. Dobby sees now. Harry Potter will not leave Hogwarts. Dobby cannot help Harry Potter anymore," he said dejectedly, hopping off of Harry's bed. He looked up at Harry.

"Dobby asks one last time sir. For Harry Potter's own good. Please go home, sir."

"Who is it Dobby?" Harry asked coldly. "Who's opened the Chamber? Who opened it last time?"

Dobby shook his head vigorously, his face contorted in pain.

"Dobby is sorry, Harry Potter," the elf whispered before disappearing with a pop.

* * *

Mark rocked his head as he moved through the corridor, silently humming the lyrics to an AC/DC song. Trying to avoid encountering any of the patrolling prefects, he crept his way toward the Room of Requirement for his weekly archiving session.

The archiving was going even better than he had initially anticipated. After a brief chat with Corky—who had confirmed that he was free to do as he wished with the stuff he found—he had managed to create an efficient workflow for the behemoth of a task that awaited him. Thankfully, the room had been of help—at his request, it expanded even more, creating enough space for him to properly examine everything. In the past two sessions, he had managed to sort through a total of five piles. Apart from unsalvageable garbage—old, broken quills and the like—he found old textbooks, notes, robes, and a lot of broken furniture. Mark arranged all of these into separate sections, noting down everything on a notebook. To his luck, he even found a couple of old Dicta-quills—Mark immediately started to use one to record the findings, speeding up the sorting process even quicker, while the other he pocketed for his personal use.

The feast on Halloween had caused him to miss out on his weekly session. Originally, Mark had planned on proceeding to the Room after the feast, but the Chamber message snuffed that plan out pretty quickly.

Everyone had been on an edge ever since that day. Neville had even warned him not to go out at night like this, but Mark just found it hilarious. He wasn't really sure why people were taking all this so seriously. It was likely just a prank gone too far by one of the older students. Fred and George had told Mark that Mr Filch was a squib—a non-magical born to magical parents—and about the general attitude that the magical world had about squibs. They were looked down upon and ridiculed, some even being kicked out of their own families. Given that, it wasn't surprising that someone targeted Mr Filch's cat. Some people were stupid and cruel, and sometimes they went too far. It wasn't surprising at all; especially not for Mark.

After all, it wasn't just people like Mr Filch that the magical community looked down upon; it was everything non-magical or non-magical in origin. It was so ingrained into everyone that even his friends had trouble understanding what Mark found offensive.

Of course, there were leagues of difference between them and people like Draco Malfoy. His friends were ignorant of their own behaviour, but they appreciated non-magical things and were willing and eager to learn more. Draco, on the other hand, was someone who had learnt to hate the non-magical right from his childhood.

Mark smiled to himself as he recalled the Quidditch match from earlier today. Sitting on the bench, he hadn't been able to see much of it in the pouring rain. But, to his luck, the final catch by Harry had happened right in front of him. The look on Draco's face as he probably shat his pants was priceless.

As Mark turned around the corner, any further thoughts were stubbed as a flash of red caught his eye. Squinting, he peered up the corridor, only to see the unmistakable red hair of Ginny Weasley turn around the corner.

'What's she doing out after curfew?' Mark wondered. As he started following her, he chuckled to himself as he realised what she must be up to. 'On her way to set up some prank, no doubt. Making her brothers proud.'

Mark picked up his pace as he tried to reduce the distance between Ginny and himself. From what Fred and George had told him—admitted in private, mind you—Ginny was even better than them at pranks. Obviously, she wasn't as good with the trick potions and charms that they excelled at. But what she lacked in skill, she made up with creativity. Both Mark and Neville had squirmed at the very thought of the 'underwear prank' that the twins had mentioned.

That was what was occupying Mark's thoughts; given the possibility of a prank from Ginny, it was better to be safe than sorry. Knowing what she was up to would definitely be useful. Maybe he would even sneak up on her to give her a bit of a scare.

As he followed her, Mark tried to guess where she was setting up the prank. Her direction seemed to indicate the Great Hall; it was the likely target for a school-wide prank. Mark didn't think she would target a single person or house; unlike her brothers, Ginny had a much more refined sense of fun—something Mark had appreciated on the Express.

Mark's guess, however, turned out to be false when Ginny took a wrong turn, heading left towards the Charms corridor. She wasn't headed towards the Great Hall. Before Mark could ponder on her destination any further, Ginny took another turn—this time disappearing behind a tapestry depicting the goblin rebellion of 1612. Mark moved the tapestry aside to find a secret passage behind it; a passage he had no idea existed.

Mark's respect for Ginny grew, and so did his curiosity. She had come to Hogwarts barely two months ago. When and how had she found this passage? Did the twins tell her about it? Was it on that map of theirs?

As he moved through the pitch-black passage, Mark's mind started growing uneasy. He couldn't point it out yet, but something was off. The more he thought about it the more the unease grew.

He was finally able to point it out. It was the way Ginny was moving. She wasn't sneaking around, but walking with purpose and confidence—something that was unlike a student going to set up a prank.

The moment Mark exited the secret passage, he got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He was standing in a corridor on the second-floor. Specifically, the corridor where the message about the Chamber had been found, along with the petrified body of Mr Filch's cat.

As realisation began to set in, Mark slowly crept towards the bathroom. The door was open, and he could hear Ginny's voice coming from within—he couldn't make sense of her words. Taking a deep breath, Mark peeked around the doorway.

"—_sssHahshshhaaSSS_"

Inside, Ginny was standing in front of the sinks, hissing at them. The sinks began to move, sliding away right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed—large enough for a man to go through. Ginny hissed again.

"_SSsaaShshahaasSaaa_"

The pipe began to contort itself, turning into a stone staircase going down. Ginny walked straight towards it, and soon disappeared from view.

Closing his eyes, Mark pinched himself. No this was not a dream, nor was it some horrible nightmare. Something was very, very wrong here. As he thought and re-thought through all the possible explanations for what he had just seen, Mark found his feet making their way towards the staircase. His sweaty palm encountered cold, rough wood; Mark realised he had already drawn out his wand. Taking an audible breath, Mark began going down the staircase. Whatever was going on—he was going to get at the bottom of this.

* * *

AN: And there we go!

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	28. Tom Marvolo Riddle

**Tom Marvolo Riddle**

* * *

7th November 1992

The dark pipe seemed endless. As Mark slowly descended into the depths below the castle, his mind raced with all the possible explanations for why Ginny was going down a secret entrance through the girl's bathroom. And all of them pointed to only one conclusion—that this was the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, and that Ginny was the one who had opened it.

But why? She obviously was _not_ the Heir of Slytherin; unless she wasn't a Weasley. Mark shook his head silently. No, that was ridiculous; besides the family resemblance was too strong. Perhaps you didn't need to be the Heir to enter, and the legend was incorrect. But then, why would Ginny want to attack Mr Filch's cat? What had he done to upset her? Plus, she didn't seem the vindictive sort. If she had anything against Filch, she probably would have pranked the hell out of him, not used some dangerous magic.

His thoughts were interrupted as he reached the base of the stairs. Clutching his wand tightly, he squinted to see if he had been noticed. There was no one around. Steeling himself, he walked softly through the large, damp tunnel he found himself in, heading for the general direction of the cold draft that he felt. After a while, something crunched under his feet.

'Shit.'

Mark stood completely still, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Closing his eyes, he tried to sense if anyone had heard the noise. After a couple of seconds—which felt like an eternity to Mark's adrenaline addled brain—he finally relaxed. There was no sign that he had been spotted. Since he couldn't exactly use a Lumos spell, Mark gently bent down and felt for what it was that had crunched under his feet.

Bones. Small bones, belonging to rats and the like. Something had eaten them and left the remains here. That meant there was a predator—which meant that the legend had been right. Another ball of lead settled into Mark's stomach as he gulped down his fear. The monster of the chamber had been real after all. He tried to reassure himself that it was most likely dead now, after a thousand years. It didn't exactly work.

"_SShhShahshhhSah_"

Mark heard the loud hissing noises once again, and they were coming from up ahead. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his now sweaty palms on his trousers. Crouching, he evened his weight on the floor below and crept ahead. His wand was almost twitching, and he could swear he was able to hear the sound of the water behind the damp walls of the tunnel; Mark reckoned it must be underneath the Black Lake.

Soon he reached the end of the tunnel, and his eyes were met with an incredible sight. A huge entrance stood in front of him, bordered by carvings of snakes on a greenish stone. The eyes of each serpent were adorned with a blackish gemstone of some sort—probably agate or obsidian. Mark shivered slowly as he averted his gaze—the black beady eyes of reptiles was exactly what creeped him out the most.

Trying to ignore the otherwise imposing entrance, Mark tried focusing behind it. On the other side lay a long and dimly lit room. Its ceiling was high; so high that it disappeared into the shadows, held up by towering stone pillars adorned with even more carved serpents. There was no doubt in his mind anymore; this was Salazar Slytherin's Secret Chamber.

"_SshSaaahShaas_"

The hissing drew Mark's attention again and he looked towards its source—Ginny. There she was, standing at the far end of the chamber, her flaming red hair bathed under the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. Bile threatened to rise up Mark's throat as his mind began to accept the implications of what he was seeing, and a sudden urge to just barge in and confront Ginny hit him like a train. Yet, he somehow managed to fight it, the curious and tactical side of his mind winning over with the simple reasoning that it was wiser to just observe for now. Clenching his fist, he silently crept into the chamber and quickly made his way to the closest stone pillar for cover. Peering around to keep an eye on Ginny, he mentally began to map his surroundings.

The chamber was paved with smooth tiled stone, interspersed with the towering stone pillars he had seen before. Mark noticed that they weren't laid out in a linear fashion; instead, they seemed to be placed in some sort of alternating pattern—probably hexagonal. Each of them had an ornate bracket made of blackish metal, on which hung magical torches glowing with a greenish flame. Their placement provided an opportunity for Mark; since the torches were about ten feet off the ground, the immediate space around each pillar was still in shadows. If Mark moved from one pillar to the next, he could manage to get near Ginny without being noticed. Maybe even —

"_SSssshsssaassssaaasSh_"

The hissing interrupted his thoughts again; only this time, it hadn't come from Ginny. It was much louder and deeper, with a feral undertone that made Mark's blood run cold. There was no doubt in Mark's heart anymore—it had belonged to the monster.

As Mark peered at the end of the chamber, he suddenly noticed a massive statue standing against the wall—so massive that its features just seemed like the part of the wall. He had to crane his neck upwards to even see its head. Squinting his eyes against the dark, he studied its face. It had an ancient and apish undertone to it, with a beard that was longer and thinner than Headmaster Dumbledore. Mark realised that this must be a statue of Salazar Slytherin himself.

It was fortunate that Mark's gaze was fixed on the statue's head, for what happened next would have given him a heart attack otherwise. A rumbling sound of grinding stone echoed through the chamber as the statue of Salazar Slytherin opened its mouth to reveal a gaping hole within, the sound of Ginny's hissing mixing in with it like an other-worldly chant.

"_ssSSaahshhaass_—"

Mark had had enough. Deciding that there was sufficient cause to justify it, he closed his eyes and opened up his legilimency to its full extent—the first time he had done so since the encounter with Quirrell in June. As the flood poured in, his mind began to finally interpret the hissing sounds Ginny was making.

"— _take care of the Mudbloods in the name of Salazar, greatest of the Hogwarts Four. And remember to lower your eyelids as you present yourself._"

The reply came promptly, from a mind much too large and much too simple to be human.

"_As you command, master._"

Mark opened his eyes again, and a small part of him immediately wished that he hadn't. The mouth of the statue was fully open now, and from the huge black hole that had been revealed emerged the monster of Slytherin; an enormous serpent, with a foul greenish skin and body as thick as a tree. As it slithered down the body of the statue like a horrific reptilian vomit, Mark estimated that it was nearly forty feet long.

Finally, the snake coiled down on the floor at the base of the statue, bowing its head down in submission. As Ginny had instructed, its eyes were shut. For what reason, Mark had no clue. Soon, Ginny began hissing again.

"_Good. Today we shall resume the work I began all those years ago. Once the purification process is underway, we will strike _—"

Mark literally stepped back in surprise. _Years ago? _Ginny was eleven. There was no way she could have come here before. None of this was making any sense, and Mark furiously racked his brain for any explanation that did. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that he was no longer in cover.

"Well, well, well."

It took a moment for Mark to realise that the voice was speaking English; when it did, a cold chill ran through his back. He looked up to see Ginny standing in front of him with her head cocked, a slight smirk on her face

"What do we have here?"

It was Ginny's voice. But something was off about it. As if someone else was —

'Of course,' Mark said to himself, as the penny dropped. Suddenly everything made sense, giving him the answer that had been in front of him the whole time: Ginny was being possessed.

"Just your friend Mark," he finally replied, now standing up straight. "You recognise me, don't you, Ginny?"

"Ah. The mudblood," said Ginny. "Friends? You think I would stoop so low to actually be friends with you?"

"No, not you," said Mark. "But Ginny considers me a friend. Whoever you are, you're not welcome. It's time for you to leave her."

Mark clutched his wand tighter as he saw Ginny cackle in front of him. Twirling her wand in her hand she turned back at him.

"But I didn't force my way in, Smith. _She_ let me into her heart. Pouring out all her emotions, like the naïve little girl she is."

So Mark was right. The girl in front of him wasn't Ginny—not completely anyways. Not when her voice was colder and sinister than anything he had ever heard before. Suddenly, she turned to him with a psychotic glee on her face

"_Oh Tom, I feel so alone," _said the girl in front of him, mocking his friend in her own tender voice._ "No one's ever understood me like you, Tom … I'm so glad I've got you to confide in._"

Whoever this Tom was, he was the one possessing Ginny right now. Somehow, he had gotten a hold of Ginny. Somehow gotten her to confide in him. But how? Where did he meet her? Someone might have noticed wouldn't —

"That diary she was writing in—that's how you did it!" Mark exclaimed, seething in anger. "You sick son of a bitch," he spat.

Tom cackled through Ginny once again, and something of that laugh felt familiar to Mark.

"Right in one. And confide she did. She poured her soul into that diary and opened herself for me to take hold in return. Of course, she had no idea what was happening." Tom added as an afterthought.

"_Dear Tom, I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there—Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and my hands are stained red."_

Mark watched Tom as he mocked Ginny's innocence. Tom. Why was that name familiar? Something about this whole situation was ringing bells in his head—reeking of déjà vu. Possession, unnatural red eyes, the name Tom —

"It's you, isn't it?" said Mark, the pieces finally falling into place. "You're Voldemort."

"Impressive. I didn't think a mudblood like you would figure it out," said Tom, a mild expression of amusement on Ginny's face. "Yes, I am him. But then Ginny did speak a lot about you. How you seemed to be the only one in Hogwarts with any concern about her. You nearly foiled my plans, you know."

"That's not true. She has family here. Friends."

Mark noticed that Ginny's eyes flashed back to their usual warmth for a sliver of a moment before reverting back to their previous cold self.

"Really?" asked Tom/Ginny. "Brothers who haven't spoken to her since the welcoming feast? Who didn't notice their sister disappearing off after curfew? Who didn't notice her fading health, as I begin to claim her soul for my own?"

"So that's how you tricked her? Trying to turn her against those that she cares for?" asked Mark. "Just because nobody seemed to give you any love, you decided others shouldn't get it either?"

The cold eyes behind Ginny flashed in recognition, and Mark realised that he had touched a nerve. Alright then. Two could play this game.

"I'm right, aren't I? Let me guess. Abusive parents?" Mark shook his head after a moment. "No, that would make you yearn for love," he remarked, pacing a bit as he thought. "Now, an orphan? That's possible. Maybe —"

"This is quite the interesting analysis, Smith," Tom/Ginny interrupted, "but I'm afraid I must cut it short. There are—_things_—that need to be done."

Mark stopped pacing and turned to face Tom.

"Not before you leave Ginny."

"Really? And what if I refuse?" Tom scoffed in amusement. Mark gave a smirk as he projected directly into Ginny's mind.

'Then I'll kick you out.'

"_Impossible_" Tom/Ginny hissed, before being bombarded by a mental message much stronger than the one before.

'Ginny,' Mark projected with as much force as he could muster. 'Listen to me. Throw off Tom's control. You can do it. Focus on yourself.'

"You dare —" Tom/Ginny spluttered before clutching her head and crying out in pain.

It was working. Ginny was fighting back. Mark watched from the side-lines as Ginny stumbled around in pain. After a moment she looked straight at him, her brown eyes struck with fear

"Basilisk. The eyes. Don't look."

The next moment, Tom took back control, the cold red eyes full of hatred. Still clutching his head.

"_Kill him._"

A slow rumbling was audible, and Mark could make out the Serpent slithering its way towards him. A Basilisk. What did that even mean? '_Don't look._' If that was the information Ginny thought the most important to share, he would heed by it. As Mark shut his eyes closed, he heard Tom hiss again.

"_His eyes are closed. Your stare won't work. Hunt him._"

Well, that eliminated all the other possible courses of action. Mark had only one alternative left; he needed to kill the snake before it killed him. Trusting his instincts, Mark fired of the strongest spell he knew towards it before sprinting off in the opposite direction.

"_Diffindo_"

It must not have done any damage whatsoever since he heard Tom speak through Ginny again.

"You seriously believe a spell like that would affect a beast as powerful as a Basilisk. Its hide is impenetrable. It seems as though Ginny was—_aaugh_"

Ginny. She must be trying to fight again. As he ran for his life, Mark racked his brain. He needed a way to get rid of the bloody snake, and he needed a way to help Ginny regain control of herself. And he needed to do it _before_ he was snake feed.

Running blindly as he was, he struck his shoulder on a nearby pillar and almost stumbled.

"Fuck," Mark groaned.

Priority number one—need to figure out some way to navigate safely. By now, Mark had a pretty good guess what the Basilisk could do. Both Tom and Ginny mentioned the snake's eyes, so it was likely that the Basilisk had some form of lethal stare. That was what he had to work around. But how? He needed to think of some idea to track the snake's head, some brainwave to —

Brainwave! That's how. His legilimency could help him focus on the snake's mind—and by extension, its head. Maybe he could even push it back, slow it down somehow. Using every ounce of his concentration, Mark focused on the reptilian mind currently pursuing him. He tried squeezing in on it, just like he had with Quirrell, hoping to maybe overwhelm it.

It didn't work. All he managed to do was anger the great serpent, who began pulling back to strike with a lunge.

'Shit' Mark thought as he dived to the left, the huge head of the Basilisk missing him by a few inches. As he stumbled onto the ground, Mark felt the serpent pull back, this time slower than before. It was readying itself for a satisfying kill.

This was it. He was about to die.

Against his better instincts, Mark squinted slightly at the beast. Its mouth was wide open, its insides adorned with fangs long and thin as sabres, waiting to sink into his soft flesh —

Wait. _Open_ mouth? Acting by itself, Mark's hand rose and aimed his wand at the roof of the Basilisk's mouth.

"_DIFFINDO!_"

* * *

"Nooooo!" Tom cried out in anger as the Basilisk was thrown back by the force of the spell, its blood spewing out of its mouth in a wide shower of red. It was all the distraction Ginny needed, and she pushed back onto Tom.

Ginny cursed herself. Why did she have to be so stupid and write in that diary? Her father had told her many times before: Never trust anything that had a mind of its own. Why didn't she listen?

'_Stupid girl. Do you really believe you had any chance of resisting me? I enchanted that diary Ginevra, I, the Heir of Slytherin and the greatest sorcerer in the world. You never stood any chance_.'

'So, it's true? What Mark said? You're V-V — You-Know-Who'

_'__Yes, Ginevra. You see now, why it is futile for you to try and resist? You cannot beat me. It is inevitable.'_

'I thought you were my friend. I trusted you. With my thoughts, with my feelings, with —'

'_Yes, you did. You played your part beautifully, dear. I had not planned on taking complete control so soon, but now it will be easier this way. It will end soon.'_

The next moment, Ginny felt as if she was being squeezed inside a winch, Tom's presence trying to push its way back into her mind.

'Help me,_' _she begged wildly. 'Help me—please'

_'__No one is coming, Ginevra. Your mudblood friend can't help you anymore. He may have managed to kill Salazar's Serpent, but it was mere luck. Once I take over, I will kill him for his insolence._'

"NO!" Ginny pushed back with all her might. Tom faltered for a moment, and she managed to throw him out.

The moment she regained control of her body, she frantically reached out in her robes for the Diary. She was about to toss it away when she heard it again.

'_You cannot escape me, Ginevra. YOU'RE MINE._'

Not again. She couldn't keep him away any longer. Tears trickled down her face as she began to accept her fate.

"Ginny?" Mark called out.

"I can't. He's too strong. The Diary—I'm so—so tired," she mumbled, trying to convince herself of her own failure.

"GINNY!" she heard Mark call out, but she was done. There was no way out. No other —

Her thoughts were interrupted. Something landed in front of her with a loud clatter. It was a fang, from the mouth of the basilisk. She turned and looked at Mark, who seemed to be trapped under the body of the dead snake. He looked straight into her drooping eyes.

"Destroy it."

Ginny's eyes travelled back to the fang, her right arm inching slowly to grab it. She wrapped her hand around it and looked at the Diary in her left.

'_Will you do that to me?' _Tom spoke to her once again, in the same friendly tone that she was familiar with—that he had befriended her in._ 'Me, who cared for you when no one did? You need me, Ginny, just like I need you._'

'No, you don't,' said Mark's voice, entering her consciousness like a jet of cold water. 'You're strong Ginny. You don't need him, or anyone else. Friendship isn't born out of need but from want. What is it that _you_ _want_?'

"To be free," she whispered.

_"__Stop this madness at once. You are just a silly little girl, who doesn't know what's good for her. Know your place, Ginevra. You will put that down at once and _—_"_

But Ginny couldn't take it further. She thrust the fang into the Diary, her anger and frustration finding their target. And it did. The Diary screamed—a long, dreadful, piercing scream. She knew it worked because she felt Tom's pain; felt him writhing and twisting as ink spurted out of the Diary in torrents.

It was done. He was gone. It was like a huge boulder had been lifted off her head, her mind finally free to think for itself in weeks. There was silence once more, except for the steady drip of ink from the diary. Ginny looked down at it. The fang had done its job wonderfully, burning a sizzling hole right through the pages. She was free.

The realization hit Ginny like a ton of bricks, and tears started streaming down her face. Her body rocked as she sobbed, guilt finding its way to her heart.

* * *

AN:

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks


	29. Guilt

**Guilt**

* * *

7th November 1992

Mark groaned. Fighting a Basilisk seemed cool. Killing a Basilisk felt even cooler. Being pinned under the body of a Basilisk — not so much.

He needed to get himself out of here. His leg had gone numb under the crushing weight of the carcass, and Mark needed to know exactly how much damage it had done to his limb. Hesitantly, he edged his hand towards the dry, scaly skin of the snake, holding in all the disgust that was threatening to vomit itself inside himself. His fingers brushed against the greenish hide before he jerked it back in shock.

"Eeugh—I can't do it. I can't," he muttered to himself, rubbing his hand vigorously over his shirt. Damn the reptiles, and damn the evolutionary process for ever creating them in the first place. He needed to find some other way—some way to get this bloody thing off of him without touching it.

Maybe he could use his wand; after all, if performed correctly, the effect of a levitation spell wasn't dependent on the mass of the object. It could work—if he could get his hand on his wand, which had slipped from his hand when the dead basilisk fell on him. Turning his head, Mark's eyes found the piece of ash-brown wood lying about two feet away from him. Stretching his hand, he tried to reach for the wand but came up a few inches short. He tried swiping back and forth in a vain attempt to touch it but still fell short. He then stretched his body, hoping to gain a longer reach, but immediately grunted out in pain. It was simple really: The more he stretched, the more his leg moved underneath the weight of the snake. The more his leg moved underneath the weight, the sharper the pain which shot up his thighs.

Mark steeled himself and tried reaching again. After a second or two, his fingers finally brushed against his wand. Ecstatic, he tried rolling it towards himself, his fingers curling to provide the required force. But luck was not on his side, and the desperate attempt only ended up giving the wand a push away from him.

"Shit," he whispered. Before he could think of something else to do, Mark heard the soft sobs of Ginny echo through the chamber. Realising that she could help him, he tried to call her.

"Ginny," he croaked, his throat parched. She must not have heard him, for there was no response. Gulping down to wet his throat, he tried again, louder this time.

"Ginny."

"Huh," Ginny looked around, and suddenly remembered. "Mark!" she cried as she stood up and hurried towards him. "Are you alright? Of course not. I'm so sorry. I—It's all my fault. I'm—I'm—It's all my fault—sorry" she broke down again into sobs.

"Ginny—Ginny!" Mark grabbed her attention. She looked straight at him with her tear-stained eyes, her face twisted with guilt.

"My wand?"

Looking towards where he was pointing, Ginny quickly grabbed the wand and handed it to Mark.

"All right —" Mark steeled himself. If what he remembered from first aid was right, this was going to hurt like hell. Pointing the wand towards the huge head of the Basilisk, he scrunched his face in concentration.

"_Wingardium Leviosa._"

Although he barely whispered the words, they had the desired effect. The Basilisk slowly rose from where it had trapped his leg. Mark bit his lip to dull the pain from his leg. Moments later, he let the dead serpent drop unceremoniously.

"Shit," Mark mumbled. The pain was much greater than he'd realised. He must have dislocated something when he had tried reaching for his wand.

"Don't move," Ginny ordered him, her helpless visage now replaced by a business-like expression. "It needs to be put in a splint. Wait here. Don't move."

Ginny got up and ran to where her wand had fallen. After picking it up, she returned swiftly. Squatting down, she turned to Mark and swallowed a visible lump in her throat.

"This is going to hurt some," she said before pointing her wand at his leg and muttering something. Mark couldn't make out what she said, but the immediate pain that hit his leg felt like a cricket bat to the knee. As his eyes opened up again, he could see that she had straightened his leg and conjured a splint around it.

"Now stay still," she told him. "_Episkey. Episkey. Episkey._" Mark felt the pain slowly ebb away from his leg, a sensation of numbness taking over instead. After a few moments, all he could feel was akin to a sprained ankle.

"Is it done?" he asked, partly impressed by the efficiency of Ginny's actions

"I'm not sure. I've only seen Mum use that spell once before, when Fred fell off from his broom. It's supposed to be used for minor injuries." Ginny wrung her hands in nervousness.

"Hey, you did a good job with the splint," Mark reassured her in a tired voice as he sat up slowly. "That looked quite advanced." Ginny's face dropped at this, her tears returning.

"What's the matter? Ginny?"

"I — I — Tom taught — I learned it from — from him," she slowly whispered.

"Oh." Mark swallowed, unsure of how to reply. That was a bummer. "Well, it did come in handy," he remarked. "Think of it as a silver lining."

Ginny was now crying silently once more, her shoulders slowly racking in between the sobs.

"Ginny, what's the matter?" Mark asked "It's over. It's done. He's gone, Ginny. He can't trouble you any further."

"I know," she replied.

"Then what's the matter?"

"I—I'm afraid," she finally whispered her reply.

"Of what?"

"Everyone else," said Ginny. "What will they think—what will everyone say? I—I wrote the message, opened the Chamber. They'll think I was the Heir. I tried attacking the school—was going to attack the students," she spilt out in between her sniffed sobs. "They'll expel me for this."

Mark stared at her dumbly as he tried processing her words. Though he did not want to believe it, he was slowly realising the truth behind them.

"Dumbledore would understand, I think," said Mark, in a weak attempt at reassuring Ginny. "He'll understand that it was Voldemort. He'll make sure you won't be punished."

"Maybe. But what of everyone else? Maybe they won't expel me, but they'll still blame me, wouldn't they? They won't forget it—will make sure I won't forget it."

Mark had never expected this reaction from Ginny. As she spilt out her thoughts, it was like he was seeing her for the first time—seeing the real Ginny. A girl who was angry at Tom Riddle; who was resentful towards the small-mindedness of the magical world. A girl who was scared of the future.

"I—I attacked Mrs Norris," continued Ginny. "Almost killed her. Maybe they won't say it to my face, but they'll definitely say it behind my back. A dark witch—that's what they'll call me"

"I don't think —" Mark began but was interrupted with a tear-filled look from Ginny.

"You tell me, Mark. If I was someone else—some other student that you found here. Someone you didn't know as well. What would you have thought? Would you have accepted the truth as easily? That I wasn't the Heir? That I—I wasn't actually planning on—on attacking you?"

Her question tore at Mark's heart like a piece of cardboard. This was what was eating at her the most—that she would have attacked him. And from a purely objective perspective, she wasn't wrong. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that she was right. The gossip and rumour mill of Hogwarts was strong. From what Mark knew of the wizarding world, any hint of Dark Magic was persecuted by the people. No amount of explanations would suffice—Ginny would be vilified.

"They won't talk to me. Play with me. Be friends with a dark witch like me," she continued, "Mum will hate me. Ron will hate me. You know how he thinks of Slytherins," she finished, her tone becoming more miserable every minute.

Mark made a decision. Looking straight at her he spoke clearly.

"No one needs to know."

It took a moment for Ginny to absorb his statement.

"What?" She looked at him, her eyes puffed by crying. Mark took a deep breath and repeated himself.

"I said, no one needs to know. Nobody knows we're down here, and nobody will know we were. Not unless we tell them. And we won't."

"But —"

"What does it matter anyway? The Diary is destroyed, the bloody snake is dead. Nobody's in any danger anymore."

Ginny stared at him in confusion—clearly, this wasn't something she had ever considered.

"You're hurt," she said finally. "You can't not show your leg to Madam Pomfrey. How will you explain that?"

"I was on my way to set up a prank near Ravenclaw Tower when I missed a trick step on the fourth-floor staircase," Mark replied in a dispassionate tone. As far as cover stories went, it was fairly solid.

"You'll get detention for it," reminded Ginny. Mark realised she was trying to offer him a way out.

"More like a week's worth," he replied. "Still, a small price to pay. You didn't hurt anyone Ginny. You shouldn't suffer because of it."

"But what about Mrs Norris? She was hurt —"

"She was petrified and will be back to normal once the Mandrake restorative potion is ready. So, we'll be deprived of her charming personality for a few months."

Ginny continued to stare at Mark with a peculiar expression—a stare which Mark didn't back out of. As they locked gazes for what seemed like an eternity, Ginny finally broke the silence.

"You'd do that for me? Keep this a secret?"

"As long as needed," Mark replied at once. "You're my _friend_, Ginny. It's the least I could do."

Ginny launched herself at Mark and hugged him tightly, burying her head in his shoulder. Mark patted her awkwardly as she silently sobbed into his shirt.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

* * *

10th November 1992

_'__12.25'_

Mark yawned and slipped the pocket watch back into his pocket—it had once belonged to his grandfather. Still seated on the couch, he tried stretching himself. He reckoned that he could probably stay up for another hour or so.

Cracking his knuckles, he picked up the book lying face down on the couch beside him. Currently, he was occupied in reading through a chapter on the mechanics and properties of the Blood replenishing potion. It was used to treat acute blood loss—Mark hoped he could understand how the potion triggered the production of new blood inside the body. It was, in essence, accelerating regeneration capabilities of certain types of cells. Maybe combined with the Elixir…

Mark gave a deep sigh. Why on earth were wizards such terrible authors? The book was less a textbook on potions and more a detailed description of completely irrelevant historical events. Seriously, who and why would someone care that Elliot Harbinger was the minister of trade the year Gurdyroot imports went down, leading to use of Goosegrass in some potions?

Feeling a little cold, Mark stretched his legs and twiddled his toes. All perfectly normal. According to what Madam Pomfrey had said, the healing spells that Ginny used had stabilised the fracture in the bone, making it much easier for her to heal. Of course, Mark had to claim that he had done the spell on himself after he slipped in through the trick stair—something he wasn't that happy taking the credit for. Still, his cover had held, and no one seemed to have any idea that anything was amiss. He even got an admiring pat on the back from Fred for 'making efforts.' Mark had been even more surprised when Professor McGonagall didn't assign him any detention—obviously, she took twenty points from Gryffindor, but that was it. According to her, his broken leg was punishment enough.

Mark's thoughts were interrupted as he saw Ginny come down the stairs from the girl's dormitories. Her eyes went to the couch in front of the fireplace, and her face fell when she saw that it was occupied by some of the older students. She must have been hoping to sit in the warmth.

As her eyes scanned the common room, her gaze locked with Mark, who gave her a small smile. He watched as she slowly made her way over towards him. Her shoulders were slumped, her gait tired and her eyes shallow—quite unlike the girl he'd met on the Express.

"Couldn't sleep?" asked Mark once she reached him. Giving just a tired shrug in reply Ginny plopped on the couch beside him. Her light blue pyjamas—which probably belonged to one of her older brothers at one time—hung loosely on her small frame. Even her usually vivid hair looked dull.

Ginny sat in silence, her eyes wandering nowhere in particular. She was deep in thought, and it looked like she wanted to get something off her chest.

"What is it?" Mark asked after a few minutes. Ginny opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. After another minute of silence, she finally spoke.

"It's—It's what everyone is talking about." Her words started pouring out, eyes staring off into empty space. "Still talking about the chamber. Wondering what's going to happen. Who's responsible." Ginny then looked straight at Mark. "They'll find out, won't they? What—What will happen when they do?"

Frankly, Mark wasn't surprised by her words. This was what was troubling her, and it was something that was troubling him too. The imminent feeling of someone finding out—of his cover story falling apart. A niggling sense of paranoia swirled in the back of his mind, even after he had taken steps to check if the secret had spilt. Over the past two days, he had purposefully gleaned into the minds of almost all the students at school, trying to see if there was any suspicion about them; no one seemed to have any idea at all.

Wondering if Ginny had some different information to draw upon, Mark turned towards her.

"Why do you think they will find out?" he asked cautiously.

"The truth comes out, doesn't it? I'm the one who — I'm responsible for it. They'll know. And then they'll hate me," Ginny rambled.

Mark narrowed his eyes as he reflected on Ginny's words. Something felt off. Whatever was fuelling her worry, it wasn't the possibility of others finding out—at least not completely. It was more subtle, lying underneath and stemming from something else entirely.

Mark wished he could get a read on her, but entering her mind wasn't the appropriate thing to do—especially in this situation. In fact, Mark was surprised by the fact that Ginny hadn't asked him about his Legilimency yet, given everything that happened down in the Chamber. She obviously knew about Occlumency, since he had never been able to get a read on her ever since they met on the Express. Tom must have already taught her by then.

A fleeting thought suddenly entered Mark's mind. Trusting his intuition, he decided to run with it.

"Do you want them to find out?"

Ginny snapped her head to look at Mark, her face betraying her thoughts for a moment.

"What? No!" she said immediately. "Of course not," she added after a moment, her eyes darting around to avoid Mark's gaze. Realising his instinct was correct, Mark took a moment to choose his words carefully.

"Because it sounds like you do," he said. "Look, Ginny. You're a good person—you have a good heart. You're—you're a Gryffindor inside," Mark rambled for a few moments as he tried to search for the correct words. "You think—you are thinking that you are a coward—No that's not —"

"What are you trying to say?" Ginny interrupted him.

"Just—let me finish, okay? Where was I — Oh, yes. You're a Gryffindor. You think by hiding this you're being a coward, and that's what feels wrong to you. About hiding this I mean."

"You're saying that I'm being too noble?" asked Ginny, finally catching on to his train of thought. "Isn't that the right thing to do? Telling the truth?"

"Why?" Mark asked, coming to his point at once.

"Why what?"

"Why is it the right thing to do?" He spoke pointedly. "And right for whom? What—what exactly will happen if the students of Hogwarts know the truth? Will it change anything for them? What repercussion will keeping all this a secret have on the others? None. What repercussions will it have on you? Everything."

Ginny didn't say anything in response, but her face betrayed the conflict within. Mark continued. "People will still talk about it, turn it into gossip before promptly forgetting it. As I said earlier Ginny, the threats are gone. Who will we be helping by telling everyone? Who will we be hurting?"

A few minutes passed, neither of them saying a world. Ginny's eyes darted across the floor, trying to make herself believe the truth; Mark's stayed fixed on her. Finally, Ginny leaned back, her gaze pointed at the ceiling.

"It still feels wrong," she whispered.

"It does. Because in your heart, you think you are guilty," he said. "Because in your heart—deep within—you are a good person who thinks she deserves to be punished."

"But I —"

"No, you don't. Are you guilty of writing in a blank Diary? Yes. Are you guilty of opening the Chamber and attacking Mr Filch's cat? Bloody hell no."

A neutral silence followed Mark's words—the crackling of the wood in the fireplace drawing Mark's attention to the fact that they were now alone in the common room. Deciding to give Ginny some space to reflect on the issue, Mark turned back to the passage on the reactants of the Blood replenishing potion. He was soon engrossed in its pages, while Ginny snuggled into the cushions as she stared into the dying embers of the fireplace. It was quite a while later that she finally broke the silence.

"Maybe what you said …" she trailed off

"Hmm?" Mark was still absorbed in his book. Realising Ginny had spoken something, he tore his eyes away from the page and looked at her. She looked straight at him.

"Dumbledore. You said he'll understand?" she asked.

"I think so. He's—He's different." Mark couldn't exactly explain himself. His encounter with the Headmaster after the incident in June had left a favourable impression of Professor Dumbledore on Mark. Underneath the powerful wizard and a magical genius, Mark had seen that the Headmaster was a kind and thoughtful person.

"Do you trust him?" Ginny asked, her voice cracking.

"With this? I would," Mark answered confidently. "If I'm not wrong, he'll even agree to keep it a secret," he added after a moment. "You want to tell him?"

Ginny's face betrayed the conflict inside her.

"Maybe—I don't know. I need some time to think," she said. Mark nodded silently in response. Ginny continued, "What if he insists that my parents be told?"

She didn't want to tell her parents about this? The way she said it, Mark guessed she'd rather have everyone else _but_ her parents know about it.

"You don't want them to know?"

Ginny looked unsure of her answer. Taking a moment, she answered slowly.

"My Dad, yes. My mother—I'm not sure. She'll either love me to death or blame me for my stupidity. Sometimes I —" she trailed off. Mark felt a small stab of envy.

"You're lucky to have her, you know."

It took Ginny a moment before the realisation hit her and her face took on a horror-struck expression. Immediately, she tried to apologise.

"Oh no. That was so stupid. I'm so —"

"It's alright," Mark interrupted. "Really, it's Okay."

Ginny nodded reluctantly and kept silent for a few moments before trying to change the subject.

"Will you tell Dumbledore?" she asked in a timid voice.

Mark felt confused. She didn't want to tell Dumbledore herself?

"Do you want me to?" Ginny's face took on a guilty expression, and Mark understood what she'd been trying to imply. She was worried if he would go to Dumbledore himself—tell the Headmaster behind her back. Her guilt was still eating at her.

"No, I'm not telling anyone until you give me the signal." Mark took a pause. "You're the affected party here, Ginny. It's your life, and it's your decision. Remember what I told you down there? I'm your friend, Ginny. If and when you take a decision—whatever that decision maybe—I'll support you."

* * *

AN: The Chamber of Secrets wrapped up! As is evident, the Basilisk and the Diary have been taken care of well before they were in Canon. The fact that no student was attacked and that Mark and Ginny are deciding to keep this a secret will have some solid repercussions on the plot. In my opinion, this is the central plot point of Book One, and was one of the first cornerstones in the development of this story. I hope you enjoyed reading this just as much as I enjoyed creating it.

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	30. Rumours

**Rumours**

* * *

12th November 1992

"Excuse me, sorry, excuse me —"

Neville tried to bustle his way through the sea of students in front of him as he made his way towards the entrance hall. Professor Sprout had asked him to assist her with the weekly trimming of the Mandrakes today, and that was where he was headed; greenhouse number two.

As he kept pushing through the crowd, Neville wondered just what these people were doing in the corridor. This wasn't usually a busy passage like the Charms corridor, nor was it particularly popular with loitering kids. So, what exactly were all these students doing here now? Before he could think anymore about the question, a voice broke in from further up the corridor.

"Gather 'round, gather 'round —" Drawn to the attention-grabbing words, Neville pushed through some of the taller kids in front of him.

"What in the —" Neville muttered as he took in the peculiar sight in front of him. An older Ravenclaw student—a sixth year named Trumper, if Neville remembered correctly—was standing on one side of the corridor and inviting everyone around to come near. In front of him was a small table covered with a plain white cloth, and on it was a bizarre collection of items put up on display. As Neville's gaze scanned the table, he noticed a modest selection of talismans, bracelets and different sorts of protective artefacts. On one side were small vials of colourful powders and one the other a small stack of greenish roots. As Neville stared dumbly at the table and its contents, Trumper began to speak to the gathered crowd in front of him

"Come here, folks. These are some of the best defences you can buy to ward off evil. Look at this. Genuine Egyptian ankh. Will protect you from any monsters that are lurking nearby, eh. And this. The bracelet of Cliodne. Keeps away pesky spirits who try and interfere. Here—take a look at this—you'll need this if you're a muggleborn mate. The Heir will be after you. Even you Wiggins. I don't remember old Slytherin being too friendly with the half-bloods either —"

Trumper's words had an immediate effect as whispers broke out in the crowd. The rumours regarding the Chamber had been swirling around amongst the student body ever since that ominous message had appeared on Halloween two weeks ago. As there had been no attack since, a wave of calm had just begun to settle in when someone pointed out the astronomical significance of Halloween; everyone immediately started working out the next significant astronomical event on which the attack might happen.

Having lived in the wizarding world all his life, Neville knew better than to be dismissive towards protective magic and the supposed 'ignorant superstitions.' From the many stories that his Gran and great uncle Algie had told him, Neville knew that magic worked in all sorts of mysterious ways. As the students around him began whispering about the seriousness of the threat looming over them, Neville found himself wondering about the same question as them. Were they really safe?

Even though the other purebloods like him weren't bothered by the message on Halloween, Neville had a niggling doubt in the back of his mind. After all, before coming here to Hogwarts, Neville had been considered a near squib by his family, hadn't he? Would that not be something the Heir would take into account? Squibs were considered the lowliest by the blood supremacists—after all, the first attack had been on Mr Filch's cat. There was a good chance that he might be targeted.

And even if he was safe, what about his friends? The Weasleys were well-known blood traitors, while Mark was a muggleborn. What would happen if the Heir attacked him? After all, Mark hadn't exactly kept his head down over the past year whenever Malfoy had tried instigating any quarrels.

If there was one thing that Neville was sure of, it was that Mark would never buy any of this protective stuff. If he wanted his friend to be safe, Neville would have to buy something himself and then find some way to stick it inside Mark's bag. Finalising on this course of action, Neville stepped forward and began to examine the stuff that Trumper had displayed on the table in front of him.

Most of it looked genuine—not that Neville had any idea how to check for that kind of stuff. His attention was drawn to the large green bulbs kept on the corner. He picked one up and examined it closer. Bringing it to his nose, he took a whiff.

"Here mate—that's Bavarian Gurdyroot. The best in the business for general protection against dark magic. Yours for seven sickles"

Gurdyroot? This wasn't Gurdyroot. He knew that because he had some actual Gurdyroot growing in the greenhouse at his home.

"No, it's not. This isn't Gurdyroot. It's an onion. It's a rather large one, but still an onion."

Trumper got a bit shifty at that and acted as if he hadn't heard Neville's words. He began paying attention to the other students who were looking at the Egyptian ankhs. Realising something was amiss, Neville spoke again—this time even louder.

"Wait. Does any of this stuff actually work?" asked Neville. "Where did you get all this in the first place?"

Now that he remembered, Trumper was a muggleborn. There was no place he could have gotten all this from. Neville's words seemed to have its effects, for the people broke out into whispers at them. Trumper—sensing that it was better to wrap up his spiel—began to move quickly and started packing up all the stuff on the table. With a wave of his wand, the table folded itself and disappeared inside a smallish bag that he was carrying, while the white tablecloth shrank into a handkerchief that he deftly pocketed.

"Well, the sale's over folks. I need to be somewhere. If you need any such stuff to protect yourself, you know where to find me." Stretching his hand, Trumper grabbed the fake Gurdyroot from Neville's hand and put it back in his bag. Shouldering the straps, he spoke in a louder voice than before.

"Remember chaps, the monster in the Chamber is still out there. Only a matter of time before it and the Heir comes for one of us. Better be safe than sorry."

Neville stared dumbstruck as he watched the Ravenclaw expertly disappear into the crowd. As the students began to disperse off, Neville stood there still lost in his thoughts. It was only after he realised that the corridor was empty again that he remembered Professor Sprout and the Mandrakes. Shaking his head, he decided to put away these thoughts and began moving towards the greenhouses.

* * *

Harry skipped on the grass path as he made his way to Hagrid' hut. The sun was out and the air was fresh—as Harry took in a deep breath as he kicked a pebble at his feet further down the path. He had been itching to be outside ever since he had been released from the Hospital Wing, but apart from a brief walk near the lake, he hadn't gotten the opportunity to truly stretch his legs. In all honesty, the fresh air that was filling his lungs now was just making him want to hop on his Nimbus and go off for a fly. But since Madam Pomfrey had been adamant about him not flying for at least a week, Harry was here doing the next best thing. As he neared his destination, Hagrid's large frame appeared into his view; he could make out a sizeable bunch of radishes in Hagrid's hand.

"Heya Harry!"

"Hey, Hagrid. How are you?" Harry slowed down on the path, trying to avoid the slippery moss that had appeared in some places. He noticed Hagrid's beetle-like eyes searching for something, or rather someone, behind him.

"I'm good, Harry, I'm good. Where's Ron and Hermione?"

Harry rolled his eyes inwardly. Why did everyone find it odd if he was somewhere by himself?

"Oh. Well, they're—well, Hermione's already studying for the term exams, and Ron's feeling a bit under the weather." Addressing the worry on Hagrid's face, he added immediately, "Nothing serious, he's just sleeping it off." Hagrid nodded in understanding and gestured Harry to follow him inside.

"Come to visit me then? Want a cuppa tea?"

"Yes, thank you," Harry said, as he entered through the large doorway to the hut, rubbing his hands over his shoulders. He sat down on one of the chairs, while Hagrid shuffled around and put the kettle on.

"So 'Arry, how's your arm?" Hagrid asked, his back still towards Harry.

"Good. It's back to normal, I guess," he replied, his fingers instinctively curling into a tight grip. He shrugged his shoulder to feel the regrown socket. "But somehow I can still feel the bones growing inside me. Madam Pomfrey says the sensation should go away in another week. It's just my mind playing tricks on me," he finished.

"Bloody Lockhart," Harry heard Hagrid mutter under his breath as he poured the tea into two mugs.

"You don't like him? Professor Lockhart?" Harry asked with a slight surprise. It was unlike Hagrid to criticize or curse a professor. Even last year Hagrid had kept defending Snape whenever they spoke. Granted, it turned out that Snape was on Professor Dumbledore's side. But for Hagrid to actually say that about Lockhart? Evidently, Hagrid noticed the slip of his tongue and tried to cover it up.

"Ah, Harry. It's nothing, nothing at all." Harry looked at him sceptically, trying to urge him to say the truth. Finally, Hagrid relented.

"Well, I shouldn't say this seeing he's your Professor an' all, but no, I don't like tha' man," he finished hesitantly.

"Really? I don't think he's a good teacher at all," Harry said with confidence. "He isn't actually teaching us anything useful in class. Ron agrees with me too," he took a pause, "Hermione disagrees, obviously. Says anyone who Professor Dumbledore hired must have been good enough for the job."

Hagrid snorted into his mug of tea. "More like the only one for the job," he said darkly.

"What?" Harry spurted out. Surely Hagrid was joking, right? Hagrid took another sip of his tea before explaining.

"He was the only applicant for the Defence position this year. People don't want it, you see."

"Why?" Harry asked, and realised immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Hagrid realised that he had revealed a little too much, and Harry could see the wheels turning in his head as he considered telling everything. Finally, Hagrid spoke.

"There's rumours—rumours mind you, tha' the positions cursed. No one lasts as the Defence professor for more than a year. Dumbledore has to call for new applicants every year."

"What? Since when—how long?" Harry asked, his tea now forgotten and cold.

"Hmm. Let me think." Hagrid leaned back and closed his eyes, his mind trying to work out the answer to Harry's question. "The last defence professor I remember seeing stick around was Professor Wilkes. Right," he nodded to himself. "Dumbledore sacked 'im a few years after he became the Headmaster. That was what, '68, 69'? Yeah since '69 I reckon," he finished, now looking back at Harry. Harry's mind raced as he made the calculations.

"That's more than twenty years! You're saying there's never been a Defence professor at Hogwarts longer than a year since then?" he exploded in realisation. He was on the edge of his seat now, trying to make sense of this new information. "Has Professor Dumbledore checked for a curse? Is it even possible to put a curse on something like that?"

Hagrid just shrugged in reply as he sipped on his tea. In Harry's opinion, the attitude Hagrid had towards all this seemed a bit a callous; then again, after all this time he must have been used to the idea now.

"Dunno," replied Hagrid, setting down the mug in his hand. "Dumbledore did check for it, does so every year," he tried reassuring Harry. "But so far, he hasn't found evidence of anything yet."

An uncomfortable silence permeated the cosy hut as Harry pondered over Hagrid's words. After a moment, Hagrid decided to take control of the conversation again.

"Anyway, they're matters best left alone. So, Harry, how's the classes? You enjoying at Hogwarts?" he asked. "I heard from Professor Flitwick tha' you were one of the top students last year," Hagrid remarked, his tone filled with pride, "Didn't I tell you that you'd be a thumping good wizard once you got yourself trained up?"

Harry found his mouth curl into a genuine smile as he remembered the day Hagrid had rescued him from the Dursleys, and what a nervous wreck he had been on his first visit to Diagon Alley. Taking a long sip from his now cold tea, Harry replied in a soft voice.

"It's good, Hagrid. It's great," said Harry. "It's much — It's much better, you know, than—than before," he added with a sad smile. Looking at Hagrid, whose face was turning dark, Harry smiled more naturally.

"Thank you, for bringing me to Hogwarts, Hagrid," Harry said to his first friend in the magical world. "Thanks for everything that you did for me."

"Jus' doing my job, Harry, jus' doin' my job."

* * *

_1943 - Special Award for Services to the School (regards to the incident __with the death of Ms Warren__)_

Bloody Hell. _Death_ of Ms Warren? Did he kill someone the last time?

As Mark continued reading the file, he became increasingly pissed off. Evidently, Tom Riddle had managed to fool everyone that he had met.

After Ginny had told him the full name of Voldemort, Mark's curiosity had been piqued. Logically, it was obvious that Voldemort must have been a student once. But to actually think of him as one? That had been difficult to fathom. In any case, given the rumours of the Chamber having been opened before, it didn't take Mark to connect the dots to the fact that Voldemort must have opened it while he was still in school.

So here he had come, to the student records room. Mr Filch was busy with the fifth-floor portraits today, so it had been the perfect time to sneak around. He didn't have any idea where to begin, and they weren't taught the point-me spell until the fifth year, which could have come in handy today—Mark promised himself to learn it as soon as possible. So, he had to do his search manually.

He had a fair idea of the time period. Voldemort was at the height of his powers in the 1970's. Therefore, it was likely that he was probably older than thirty then. That would put him in Hogwarts sometime before 1955. So, that's where Mark decided to begin his search.

It took him about twenty minutes of searching before he struck gold; back then the number of students at Hogwarts was about three times the present. But he did find him, in a plain manila folder with the Hogwarts crest and Class of 1945 neatly printed on the front.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_Attended - 1938 to 1945_

_House - Slytherin_

_1943 - Prefect for Slytherin House_

_1943 - Special Award for Services to the School (regards to the incident with __the death of Ms Warren__)_

_1944 - Received twelve O.W.L. certifications, three with Distinction._

_1945 - Head Boy_

_1945 - Transfiguration Award_

_1945 - Arithmancy Award_

_1945 - Received eight N.E.W.T certifications, three with Distinction._

_Point of Contact - 1938 - 1945 Wool's Orphanage, London_

_\- 1945 - Borgin and Burkes, Diagon Alley_

Mark closed the file and glanced at his pocket watch. He had been here for nearly thirty minutes. Committing the entry to memory, he placed the file back where he found it and left the records room as inconspicuously as possible. As he made his way back to the common room, his mind reeled with confusion.

Why the hell did a guy like Riddle go to work in a shop? Wasn't he from a wizarding family? So why was he in an orphanage in London? None of it made any sense. Looking back, it was glaringly obvious that Riddle was the likely culprit in whatever incident that happened in '45 that he had gotten an award for.

'Shit,' Mark cursed inwardly. He should have checked the record for that Ms Warren who Tom had attacked and probably killed. It would have certainly given him more insight into whatever had happened.

As much as Mark wished to put this all behind him, the whole business with the Chamber, the Basilisk, and Tom Riddle was something that was trespassing on his thoughts again and again. There were times when he found himself lost in thought, wondering exactly why Slytherin had built the Chamber in the first place—something about the story Professor Binns told them in class wasn't making sense to him. If it wasn't this which encroached Mark's thoughts, then it was the uneasy realisation that he had had near-death experiences at Hogwarts in the past six months. Twice.

When Mark had gone to the library, he hadn't found any mention to the Basilisk in any of the books on magical creatures. Frankly, it was something he had expected—after all, if the basilisk had been a beast of common knowledge, then the identity of Slytherin's monster would not have been a mystery to everyone. So, Mark then decided to check the restricted section in the Room of Requirement. After scanning through a dozen books on rare magical creatures—which, by the way, looked quite interesting—he finally found a reference in a fairly ominous passage. After reading and rereading it a dozen times, it was practically burned into his mind.

_Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death._

Instant death. No big deal. One thing was certain—Mark had never been more glad that he had listened to Ginny down in the Chamber. She had practically saved his life.

And it wasn't just the deathly stare that had freaked Mark out. When they had returned from the Chamber, Mark had slipped a basilisk fang into one of his pockets, hoping to keep it as a memento of having killed a bloody forty-foot snake. It was stupid in hindsight, but it had been an instinctive reaction for him then, and he hadn't given it much thought after he dropped it inside his trunk. That changed the moment he read about the Basilisk. Mark had immediately hurried back to his dorm and carefully wrapped the fang in a spare cloth before packing it in one of the spare sections of his trunk—of course, he had had no idea that it was loaded with _the most potent venom in existence_.

His mother's locket was another thing that had grabbed Mark's attention; or rather its absence. He had been in the shower when he reached for it out of habit and found it missing. After searching everywhere—even using the summoning charm to help in the effort—Mark found no trace of the locket anywhere. The only conclusion he could draw from this was that it must have broken off its chain sometime during his confrontation with the Basilisk. The only way he could make certain of it was by going down to the Chamber, and Mark wasn't particularly keen to return to that god-forsaken place.

Actually, if he thought about it, Mark was pretty sure that his mother wouldn't mind his losing the family heirloom—given that it had happened during a fight with a forty-foot killer snake. Though there wasn't any way to be sure, Mark liked to believe that his mother would have been proud of her son. At least a bit.

As his feet carried him over the castle floor, Mark soon found himself outside the Gryffindor portrait hole. His thoughts were drawn back to reality the moment he stepped inside and saw Ginny get up from the couch; clearly, she had been waiting for him. Looking around, he saw a small alcove at the back of the common room that was currently unoccupied. Mark gestured Ginny to follow him there, and she immediately nodded in agreement.

"What's up?" he asked her once they reached the alcove. Ginny looked odd; she wasn't standing still and kept twisting her fingers in nervousness, but her eyes reflected a grim resoluteness of having made a decision.

"I want to tell him."

"Hmm?"

"Dumbledore." Ginny centred herself and stood still. "I want to tell him." Her eyes quickly darted around the common room, as she continued. "The rumours. They're getting out of hand. I—I think it's the right thing to do. Telling him."

Mark waited until her eyes stopped wandering and returned to meet his own.

"Are you sure?" he asked in a neutral tone. He wanted to make sure she had reached the decision without any external pressure.

"Yes. But only him."

"What if he insists about telling your Mum and Dad?"

Ginny shrugged in resignment. Mark nodded. She had made her decision.

"Alright then," said Mark. "Tomorrow's Friday. We'll go on Saturday after the reserve practices." Looking at Ginny's slightly confused expression, he continued, "When you speak with him, time is the one thing that should not be a constraint."

Ginny nodded in agreement, and her gaze darted around in nervousness. Mark saw the shell that she had propped her confidence on crack and her nervousness return.

"You'll come with me?" she finally asked, her eyes pointed down at her feet.

"I will," Mark said. She was still looking down. "Ginny," he called her, and her eyes returned to meet his. "I'll be there. Okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

AN: I hope you enjoy the direction the story is taking. Now that the divergences have begun, the story and character development start to flourish. The next chapters will slowly shift focus on Harry and his arc/adventure for Year 2. The changes are significant, and so will their repercussions be.

Fun fact: The character of Trumper was inspired by the character from Jeffrey Archer's _As the Crow Flies._

Feedback is welcome. Please read and review. Thanks!


	31. A Riddle to Solve

**A Riddle to Solve**

* * *

AN: The text in **bold** has been borrowed from _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ by J.K. Rowling

* * *

14th November 1992

"— and then we came here to tell you, sir," Mark finished.

A brief silence followed; the only sound that could be heard was from a peculiar looking brass instrument ticking away on Professor Dumbledore's desk. Ginny's gaze was still fixed on her shoes, occasionally wandering to the small cracks on the old stone floor. Mark's retelling of the events in the chamber had refreshed her memory of all the events that she desperately wished to bury away, but the gnawing in her chest refused to leave her alone.

In a way, Ginny was grateful that Mark was here today. Sitting here, in the Headmaster's office, she wasn't sure if she would have managed to tell Professor Dumbledore anything. But Mark seemed to have no problem. He had recounted everything with a clinical detachment, not embellishing any descriptions, downplaying the emotions involved—and his own part in killing the basilisk. The way he spoke, it was as if it was some mundane report; the kind her Dad often wrote for his work with the Ministry.

Ginny knew that she would've broken down trying to tell everything. Perhaps even chickened out of the meeting. If she was being honest, the urge to just get up and run out the door hadn't completely disappeared yet. Yet, she wasn't sure if she could; there was something holding her here, immobilizing her in this large, plush chair.

She was jerked back from her thoughts when Mark gave her a nudge. She looked up and her eyes briefly met Professor Dumbledore's.

"Ms Weasley," he said, his face sad and tired—probably full of disappointment in her.

"Sorry, sir," she replied immediately, her gaze back at the floor.

"How are you, Ms Weasley?"

"I'm — I'm okay, sir," Ginny replied, swallowing the small lump in her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mark's grip on the armrest of his chair tighten.

"Ms Weasley, please do not fret," said Professor Dumbledore, "This ordeal must have been horrible for you. It is alright to be _not okay._"

Ginny found another lump in her throat already. She gulped it down as she nodded in reply. Steeling herself, she clutched her chair and looked into Professor Dumbledore's eyes.

"What will it be sir?" The sympathetic expression on the Headmaster's face muddled into one of confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My punishment. What will my punishment be, sir? I won't be expelled for this will I?"

Of all the reactions she had possibly thought of, she had never imagined something like this. Though it was only for a moment, Ginny was sure she would have the image burned into her mind for as long as she would live. Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Grindelwald and the greatest wizard in the world, looking utterly defeated.

"Ms Weasley," said Dumbledore after a long moment. "Ginny," he added, even gentler than before. "It is I who is responsible for this. As the Headmaster, it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of the students. And I _failed_ to protect you."

Trying to cheer her up, he further added, "Besides, I don't think Mr Smith will let me off my promise that easily."

"But —" Ginny found herself retorting despite herself. "I—I wrote in that diary, sir. I risked the safety of —"

Professor Dumbledore straightened up in his chair, his posture back to its usual wisdom and authority.

"Ms Weasley, Tom Riddle has managed to fool many a wizard in his lifetime. You were not the first," he took a pause, "and I'm afraid you won't be the last. If I'm not mistaken, he must have put a series of complicated charms on the Diary." He looked directly into her eyes, the twinkling of his eyes resembling a piercing beacon, "Charms which would create a compulsion on the user to write in the Diary." Leaning back into his tall chair, he continued.

"As a first-year student, you were in no position to detect and combat the dark magic that was used to create this book," said Dumbledore. "Yet, with the help of Mr Smith here, you did. You managed to throw off the possession of someone who took over many adult wizards with far more ease."

"Do you know what that means? You are one of the bravest to have ever faced Tom Riddle, and you, Ms Weasley, came out victorious." He smiled at Ginny, a grandfatherly pride on his face. "If that is not Gryffindor courage at its finest, I do not know what is."

A long silence followed. Ginny found her eyes misting, the newfound relief and happiness swirling into her guilt that was threatening to surface itself.

A hand found hers, its dark bronze a contrast on her own white, and gave it a squeeze. She turned to look at Mark who was smiling at her with a look of 'I told you so.' Ginny almost chuckled in relief. Almost.

"Sir. There was another thing," said Mark, speaking for the first time since he'd finished telling the story earlier. Seeing the slight nod of acknowledgement on Professor Dumbledore's face he continued.

"I wanted to look into Tom Riddle. Figure out more about him. So, I went to the records room and looked through his file —"

"Students are not permitted in the records room, Mr Smith," Professor Dumbledore interrupted, the hint of an amused smile on his face.

"Right," said Mark, clearly unaffected by the interruption. "Anyway, I found something odd. In 1943, Riddle was given a Special Services award," he took a pause, "regarding the death of one Myrtle Warren."

"I remember" Professor Dumbledore's face was completely serious, his old eyes slightly haunted.

"Did that have anything to do with the Chamber, sir?"

"Yes." The reply came after a long second.

All of this was news to Ginny. Almost.

"Tom," she interrupted, as locked information flooded her brain. "His memory — he had Hagrid expelled, didn't he?"

"That would be correct Ms Weasley," Professor Dumbledore confirmed, clearly uneasy with her knowledge.

"Wait, Hagrid was expelled?" Mark broke in. "Why?"

Professor Dumbledore slumped in resignment as he realised that he would have to give them an honest answer. Taking a deep breath, he began his explanation in a detached manner; Ginny noticed that it was quite similar to how Mark had spoken earlier.

"In the immediate aftermath of Ms Warren's death, evidence was found that Rubeus Hagrid had been illegally hiding a class XXX magical beast in the castle. The evidence that the monster had attacked Ms Warren was circumstantial and insufficient for a criminal proceeding, but Headmaster Dippet had Hagrid expelled."

"Tom Riddle gave the evidence?" Mark interjected, his voice a low snarl.

"He did. He was the Slytherin Prefect and a model student. I was sceptical of it then, but couldn't do anything." Professor Dumbledore paused, his eyes staring at nothing in particular.

"I did somehow manage to convince Armando to keep Hagrid on the grounds," he continued, "Let him have a home. He stayed on as an assistant to Ogg, who was the groundskeeper back then. Hagrid took over for him when he retired."

A momentary silence followed, before Professor Dumbledore turned to Ginny, having remembered something.

"Ms Weasley, have you told your parents yet?"

The sinking feeling returned in Ginny's gut. Reluctantly, she shook her head, fear slowly inching through her arms clutched on the plush chair. Professor Dumbledore just smiled at her.

"I think it will be best that we do so," he said reassuringly. "Their love and support is something that you will need in order to deal with this," he added, silently promising his own.

Ginny gulped and glanced sideways at Mark, who gave her a short nod. She turned back to the Headmaster.

"Okay"

"Very well. I shall contact them and set up a meeting for tomorrow," Professor Dumbledore said, his tone indicating the meeting closed. A small fear shot up through Ginny's gut.

"Sir, can Mark be there?" she found herself asking.

Professor Dumbledore's eyes widened in surprise. It looked as if he was about to object, but stopped after a quick glance at Ginny's hand, which was now clutching onto Mark like a little child.

"Of course, Ms Weasley," he smiled. "I will not deprive you the company of a trusted friend."

* * *

15th November 1992

"How could you have been so stupid, Ginevra?"

Mark watched silently from the corner as Ginny's Mum continued to chastise her daughter. He slowly realised why Ginny had been reluctant to involve her mother.

"Did you not remember what your father always says? Never trust something when you can't see its brain? Even then —"

"Molly —" Ginny's dad tried to interrupt his wife's tirade, to no avail.

"— almost jeopardized your father's job in the ministry. What would we have done **—**"

"Molly" He tried again, a little louder this time.

"— not to mention that the Weasley name —"

"Molly!" Ginny's Dad snapped. "The most important thing here," he looked at his daughter, who was crying openly now, "is that Ginny is _safe._"

Mrs Weasley seemed to realise the implication of that statement, for she immediately swept up Ginny in an overly tight hug

"Of course. My baby" As she smothered Ginny into her bosom, Mr Weasley turned towards the Headmaster.

"Albus, how did this happen? Where did Ginny get such a dark artefact in the first place?" he asked.

Even Mark wanted to know the answer to that question. Perhaps it was lost somewhere inside Ginny's mind, but there was no way he would be able to retrieve it. Ginny had had enough of people messing around in her mind.

"I am not sure, Arthur," Professor Dumbledore answered. "It happens so that your daughter got a hold of it sometime before term began"

"Before?" said Mrs Weasley. She stopped hugging Ginny, now roughly holding her by the shoulders instead. "Why didn't you tell us then? This could all have been avoided."

"I — I thought that you had gotten it for me," Ginny managed to splutter out. "I found it amongst my school books."

"Why would you think I would give you some dark object? Do you not have any sense, girl?" She was back to scolding Ginny, who was now trembling slightly. Unable to stay silent any longer—and irritated at Mrs Weasley's general attitude towards her daughter—Mark interrupted.

"Mrs Weasley. The Diary seemed completely harmless to her. It tricked her into believing it was a friend. Ginny wouldn't have —"

His plea fell on deaf ears, as Mrs Weasley turned on him instead.

"She should have known better. We did not raise our children without telling them about the dangers of dark objects," she spoke in a cold, condescending voice. "Albus why is this boy here? I thought you said the matter was being kept a secret from the students."

Before anyone else could say anything, Ginny spoke up to defend him.

"Mum, he's my friend. He—he saved me from To—from the Diary."

The look on Mrs Weasley's face was of sheer disbelief. A quick glean—something Mark no longer felt guilty about—revealed that she was under the impression that it had been Professor Dumbledore who had intervened. Mark wondered what she would think if he told her about the basilisk he had killed—as if by invisible agreement, both Professor Dumbledore and Mark had omitted that detail from the narrative.

"Mr Smith is the one who came up with the idea of keeping this under wraps. Since there is no more threat, inciting unnecessary panic is not wise" said Professor Dumbledore. His support for Mark silenced Mrs Weasley, but Mark was able to look into her unvoiced thoughts. He now wished he hadn't.

Mrs Weasley was having suspicions about Mark's motives for keeping this a secret, believing he was hiding something—even partly responsible for putting Ginny in danger.

Mark felt a small prick in his heart. It wasn't that he was looking for some sort of acknowledgement or praise. But being suspect of harming Ginny, that too by her own mother?

Any further thoughts were forgotten when Mr Weasley spoke up.

"Albus, I just remembered something." Turning to his daughter, he smiled in reassurance. "Ginny, did you find the diary before or after our trip to Diagon Alley?" he asked calmly.

"Af—After," said Ginny. "I thought it was a birthday present," she added softly.

"Did you find it inside another book?" asked Mr Weasley, and Ginny's eyes widened in response. She nodded silently. Mr Weasley—a triumphant look on his face—turned to Professor Dumbledore.

"Albus, it was Lucius," Mr Weasley snarled with a ferocity not belonging to the otherwise gentle man

"Lucius Malfoy?" asked Professor Dumbledore. Mr Weasley nodded and began to explain.

"He and I—we had an altercation in front of Flourish and Botts that day. Now that I think of it, he acted a bit too forward that day. As if he wanted to start a fight"

"That is unlike Lucius. He's usually delicate and methodical in his approach" said Professor Dumbledore, absently stroking his long beard.

"Yes, exactly. I think he might have done this as a way to attack the Act."

"Let me look into this, Arthur. If Lucius was in any manner involved …"

"Can we take her home, Albus?" asked Mrs Weasley, clearly unbothered by the implications made by her husband.

"No, mum. I want to stay," Ginny protested, trying to pull away from her mother's grasp.

"Shut up, Ginny," Mrs Weasley snapped, pulling her daughter back in an embrace. "Can we? I don't want her to be here."

Professor Dumbledore—who Mark noticed had been observing the two of them—replied in the negative.

"If we have to keep this a secret, Ginny will have to stay at Hogwarts, Molly. Otherwise, questions will be asked," he said. "The earliest she can go home is during the Christmas break." Looking at the expression of helpless worry on Mrs Weasley, he proposed a compromise. "However, I can arrange for meetings like this every other week."

"Thank you Albus," said Mr Weasley, cutting out any reply his wife might have. Motioning to her that they now leave, Mr Weasley stood up slowly, his demeanour now that of exhaustion. As Mrs Weasley started fussing over Ginny, Mr Weasley walked over to where Mark was seating. Surprised, Mark stood up immediately as the older man approached.

"Mr Smith." Mr Weasley looked at Mark, more thoroughly now than when they had arrived earlier.

"Yes, sir." Mark wondered what the man wanted from him. He was pretty defensive after Mrs Weasley's earlier remarks.

"Thank you," said Mr Weasley, and Mark relaxed. "Thank you for saving my daughter's life down there." He then glanced at Ginny and added further, "And thank you for standing by her now."

"Just doing my job, sir. As a friend."

Mr Weasley looked at him with a peculiar expression—for a moment Mark thought the older man was trying to read his mind. Usually, Mark would've gleaned him already; for some reason he didn't want to.

Mr Weasley now seemed satisfied—having found whatever he was looking for—and smiled.

"I'm glad then." Leaning in a bit closer, he added in a low voice, "Look after her."

Mark didn't react immediately—he could make out the weight those words held. Taking a small gulp, he gave a firm nod in reply.

Giving Mark a pat on the shoulder, Mr Weasley walked over to the door where Ginny and her mother were waiting. Mrs Weasley had a disapproving look on her face—more disapproving than he one she had had when they had met earlier in Diagon Alley. Mark watched as the three of them left, and the door shut closed behind them. He decided to give them a small head start before he left the room as well.

"Mr Smith," Professor Dumbledore called out when he was about to move. Mark turned to face the Headmaster.

"Yes, Professor."

"I know you were a bit—taken aback by Molly Weasley's behaviour"

Mark stared at Professor Dumbledore as he pondered over the statement. It wasn't entirely true. His gleaning of Mrs Weasley had told him one thing very clearly—her worry and love for Ginny was genuine.

"A bit, sir. But I understand. She—she cares for Ginny."

Professor Dumbledore seemed pleased by his reply, for he smiled and let out a small sigh.

"Indeed. She is quite overprotective of her family." Looking over his delicate spectacles, he added, "I believe it is a result of her losing her twin brothers in the last war."

The manner in which the Headmaster spoke told Mark that this was private information. Mark simply nodded in reply and took his leave.

"Good day, sir."

* * *

17th November 1992

Harry groaned inwardly as he was hauled to the front of the class. Lockhart was keen on including Harry during every one of his enactments, and to say Harry was not interested in being a part of them would be an understatement. The only reason he complied with the ponce of a professor was that any detention he got would also have to be served with Lockhart—and those were ten times worse than this.

This time he was supposed to be acting as a werewolf, one which the great Gilderoy Lockhart had bravely fought and defeated. Reluctantly, he got into his role. The quicker he played his part, the sooner he could get it over with.

**"****Nice loud howl, Harry — exactly — and then, if you'll believe it, I pounced — like this — slammed him to the floor — thus — with one hand, I managed to hold him down — with my other, I put my wand to his throat — I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm — he let out a piteous moan — go on, Harry — higher than that — good — the fur vanished — the fangs shrank — and he turned back into a man. Simple, yet effective — and another village will remember me forever as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks."**

The bell rang and Harry sighed in relief. He watched Lockhart get up and address the class.

**"****Homework — compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!"**

Just like always. Another class gone, and Lockhart hadn't taught them any shred of Defence. That was unless theatre performance was a part of it. Looking at Lockhart, Harry decided it was time he checked those records.

* * *

AN: I'm back. Writing has resumed, and so will the story. I'm thankful for all the support from my readers. Visiting the review page is an inspirational treat for me.

Harry's story will take a front foot now, and the story has kicked off into action. The impact of the decisions Ginny and Mark made will become more prominent as the story progresses. Though Dumbledore has been informed, Harry doesn't know of the Diary or of Tom Riddle. This I feel is important, since it is an important piece in the puzzle he'll need to solve later; a piece he may not find in time.

As always, I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter. Chapter 13 and 14 have been rewritten and updated, and the rest will be done soon too. The next chapter will be released next week; a schedule I hope I'll be able to stick to.

Again, feedback is welcome. Please read and review.


	32. For the Record

**For the Record**

* * *

22nd November 1992

The sound of the quill-tip snapping under his fingers brought Harry's attention back to the real world. Looking at the parchment, he realised that he had managed to doodle a rather ornate looking snitch on it. Sighing audibly, he looked over to his companions. Hermione was writing down copious notes from one of the reference books on Potions, her brows furrowed in concentration. Ron, on the other hand, was reading through a battered notebook filled with sparse notes while referencing it with an equally sparse copy of Mark's notes. Harry was still in awe of the efficiency with which his friend studied. Exactly what was required—neither more nor less. Harry had tried reading through Mark's haphazard notes, trying to make some sense of the broken sentences and circled words. He couldn't. But Ron could.

They were here in the library today because Hermione had insisted that they start preparing for the term exams already—even though they were still four weeks away. Not that Harry didn't want to study; a small part of him wanted to do his best to make his parents proud, now that he was away from the Dursleys. But today, all his mind kept returning to was the last conversation he had had with Hagrid.

"Hermione, what do they do with all the essays and homework that we submit?" asked Harry, voicing the question that was niggling in the back of his mind for the past few days. Hermione, surprised by the question, narrowed her eyes at him.

"Why do you ask Harry?"

"Just curious."

He could see that Hermione wasn't entirely convinced by his explanation, but she carried on anyway.

"Well, it depends on the professor —" said Hermione.

"Maybe Snape uses his to blow his nose," Ron interrupted. "Or to wipe his —"

"That's Professor Snape, Ron," Hermione interrupted, a slight smile on her face. She must be warming up to their jokes about Snape, thought Harry. "Anyway," she continued, "all the student records are kept in the records room beside Filch's office."

"Really? All of them?" Harry asked, his mind quickly trying to fathom the implications. "Hogwarts must be keeping a thousand years of records then! The room must be huge!"

"It's not that big of a deal, Harry," Ron said. "Magic, remember? A few spells and you can expand the room to your liking."

Harry nodded in understanding. He still wasn't accustomed to thinking in terms of magic and all that it could do; all the things wizards like Ron took for granted.

"Although that's correct," Hermione intervened, drawing their attention back to her. "Hogwarts doesn't keep all the records beyond twenty-five years."

Seeing the looks of curiosity and disbelief on the two boys, she continued her explanation.

"Yes. In eighteen twenty-seven, a man named Dervin appealed to the board to have all old records purged periodically."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Probably didn't want anyone to see how bad he did at Charms when he was twelve," scoffed Ron before turning towards Hermione. "But how and why do you know this Hermione?"

"Well — um." Hermione spluttered, her cheeks colouring in embarrassment. As both of them showed no signs of backing down on the matter, she relented.

"Okay, fine. I wanted to check Professor Dumbledore's school records," she took a pause, before continuing in a low voice, "So that I could keep them as a target for me to look up to."

"You don't need to do that Hermione. You're already brilliant!" Ron exploded, "Plus that was a century ago. You can't expect to compare against the curriculum of that time. Mental, that is!"

Hermione's face flushed, unable to decide whether to smile at Ron's backhanded praise or not.

"Hermione, how old is Professor Lockhart?" asked Harry, deciding to get to the pertinent question on his mind.

"He was born in nineteen sixty-four. That makes him twenty-eight," Hermione replied automatically before she could wonder why he wanted that information. "Why are you asking Harry? You aren't thinking of checking his records, are you?" she asked once she cottoned on. "You are. Why?"

Knowing Hermione wouldn't give in now, Harry decided to come clean.

"I'm going to see if something sticks out," he said.

"Sticks out? Like, look for inconsistencies? Why? Why would there be inconsistencies?" asked Hermione, confused.

"Look, I went to Hagrid the other day, right?" Seeing two nods, he continued, "Well, he implied that Lockhart wasn't that good of a student at school. Certainly not as good as he now claims to be."

"People learn new things all their lives Harry," Hermione spoke immediately, "Besides, Hagrid is not even a Professor. How would he know?"

"But he's seen enough students pass by in the school. He's bound to have noticed something," said Ron, coming to Hagrid's defence. "Plus, if Lockhart was putting on an act in front of the other professors, chances are it's only Hagrid who noticed"

"But his books. He's done such great things —"

"Thing he says he's done —"

"Don't be daft Ron. All of those things were reported in international news. You can't just fabricate things like that," said Hermione, "Plus, Professor Dumbledore hired him, right? He wouldn't have chosen —"

"Only he didn't choose, Hermione," interrupted Harry, "Lockhart was the _only_ applicant."

There was the clincher. Harry watched as Ron got a gleam in his eye, as if he'd found a shiny galleon in the mud. Hermione meanwhile gaped like a fish.

"I—This is crazy. You're making allegations without any proof!" she almost shouted. Harry tried to calm her down.

"That's why I want to look at the records, Hermione. To find some proof." Seeing the look of extreme discomfort on her face, he added, "Look you don't have to come with us if you don't want to."

"But if we find something …" he looked straight at her. Hermione gave a slow nod in reply.

Satisfied, Harry looked at Ron. He hadn't actually asked his friend if he would come along. But Ron had never backed away before, and he didn't now.

* * *

24th November 1992

"You reckon Filch ever files any of this stuff?" Ron asked, as he picked up another box to search through. Looking through these records was much more boring than he had realised.

"Yeah. Maybe file under 'I don't give a damn, just stick it in'," Harry replied, imitating the old caretaker's rough accent. Ron snickered after a moment.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Nothing," said Ron. "Just stick it in," he chuckled. It must have taken a moment for Harry to realise what he meant, and he hit Ron with the folder he had in his hand, his cheeks flushed.

"Shut up. You're lucky Hermione isn't here. She'd have your hide for that."

Ron shivered. Growing up amongst many brothers, such talk was common for him. Of course, his mother would punish them if they were caught, and Ron was used to that. But Hermione—she was something else entirely.

Deciding to get back to the task at hand, Ron combed through the large stack of parchments in the box in front of him, looking for any bearing the name of Gilderoy Lockhart. If they found any, they were making a quick copy; staying in the records room any longer than necessary was only inviting for more trouble, especially since Filch was particularly angry with Harry and Ron. After all, they had been present at the scene of his beloved cat's petrification.

"Shit," Harry cursed, and Ron looked at him. He was nursing a small cut on his left thumb, his right hand holding a manila folder with a green and silver crest on top, the Slytherin snake adorning it.

"Stupid bug, in the stupid Slytherin file," Harry began angrily, "Bloody _sshasahshhhhahssssss_"

Ron froze, the amused smile on his face melting off like ice-cream in the sun.

"What?" asked Harry, his thumb in his mouth.

"You—You just hissed at—at that," Ron managed to splutter out, fear slowly gripping him. If what he was thinking was correct …

Harry must have thought he was playing a prank, because he just scoffed.

"What? No, I didn't. I just said it was a bloody idiotic pile of horse shit with —" Harry stopped, now concerned about Ron's paling face. "Why did you think I hissed?" asked Harry.

'Was he playing a prank on him?' thought Ron. 'Or was Harry genuinely unaware of what he'd done?' He decided to answer Harry and get to the bottom of this.

"Because you did. You looked at that snake and—and spoke," said Ron, before he noticed something. Harry wasn't surprised by the implication that he had been speaking to snakes, only by the fact that he had been hissing.

"Have you ever spoken to a snake before?" Ron asked, his tone a bit too accusatory than he'd intended. Harry became a bit guarded at this.

"Yes," said Harry. "Once. Before," he added slowly, trying to look for Ron's reaction. "On Dudley's birthday. We had gone to the zoo, and there was this Boa Constrictor —"

"You spoke to the Boa Constrictor," said Ron, his fears confirmed.

"Yeah. I actually set him loose on my cousin. Accidently of course," Harry added hastily. "It escaped and —" he trailed off, lost in the memory.

"Did it understand you?" Ron asked, silently praying Harry would say no.

"I think so," said Harry, a frown on his face. "Why, can't you talk to them?"

"No one can, Harry."

"That's not possible. Someone else might be able to do it. There's loads of people here."

"Look. The ability to speak to snakes is—the people who can are called Parselmouths. The snake language is called Parseltongue. It's made up of hissing —"

"Hissing? But I was speaking in English," Harry interrupted. Ron closed his eyes and breathed in deeply before continuing.

"For you maybe. I don't know how Parseltongue works. But _I_ heard it as hissing," said Ron. He clenched his jaw, trying to make sense of everything. All of this was too much for him. His friend—Harry Potter himself—a bloody Parselmouth. He was sure of it—Ron knew what he had heard.

Ron watched as Harry's face fell, frustration slowly growing on it.

"So what? I have another freakish thing about me. It's not that people don't mock me enough already" he said bitterly. Underneath the apathy, Ron saw the way his friend was hurt.

"I won't go around telling anyone Harry," said Ron, "It is generally considered to be a Dark Art. The only wizards who ever spoke it were all Dark Wizards. Salazar Slytherin himself was one. That's why their symbol is a snake," he explained.

Harry's face took on a serious expression, obviously worried about the implications of Ron's statement. Ron decided to put Harry at ease.

"Doesn't make you Slytherin though, right?" he said with a small chuckle. "The Hat put you in Gryffindor with all of us."

Harry's eyes widened in shock, his face losing any colour it had before. Whatever Ron should have said to make Harry feel more comfortable, that was clearly not it. Though, he didn't know what he said wrong.

"Let's just get back to this then," said Ron, deciding just to change the topic entirely. Harry nodded silently and the two of them resumed their search for Lockhart's records. As he picked up the next box to go through, Ron wondered what he should do about the new information he'd learned. What its implications were.

One thing was certain; Hermione needed to know about this.

* * *

27th November 1992

Harry looked through the files once more, trying to make sure once again that he wasn't mistaken. He had found it; irrefutable proof that there was something fishy about Lockhart.

He had come to the records room alone today, since Ron wanted to work on his transfiguration essay with Hermione. While shuffling through the parchments, something had caught his eye—one particular essay, with a familiar-looking handwriting. Except, the name on the top was not Lockhart's. Curious, he had looked at the copies of essays that Lockhart had written during his years at Hogwarts. What he found was confusing. Some of Lockhart's essays were written in one handwriting, while some were in another. They were similar, yes. Not discernible at first glance. But Harry could make out the difference, two parchments placed side by side. There was 'g' or a 'k' that was written differently each time. He tried compiling these differences, trying to find the first occurrence. It took time—much more than he had expected. He missed his lunch, trying to follow the breadcrumbs. But finally, his efforts bore fruit.

In his first and second years, Lockhart had above-average scores—all E's and O's. Then came the third year, where his grades began to dip. First A's, then P's. Finally, all D's and T's. This continued in his fourth year—which Lockhart had to repeat. Then it all changed. Slowly, but steadily, his grades improved. To an observer, it would seem he was just studying better and therefore scoring more. Except, that was when the different handwritings began to appear. Harry cross-referenced them, at first with the other Ravenclaws and the with his entire year. And he found matches. Not to the class toppers, but to the students who were in the top fifteen. Not too brilliant that they would be noticed, but good enough to make a difference.

When he compared the OWL's scores, he found the main piece of evidence—all other students scored higher in it than they did in the Hogwarts exams. All except Lockhart.

It was time to tell Hermione. There was enough evidence; he just didn't know what to do with it. Maybe she would have some idea. Maybe they needed to find something more; Harry still didn't have a plausible explanation for Lockhart's NEWT scores. They were those of a competent wizard—certainly not those of Lockhart. Not in Harry's opinion, at least. Whatever it was they needed to find, having Ron and Hermione on the case with him was the best way to do it.

Gathering all the copies, Harry quickly stuffed the originals back into the boxes. As he rolled the large sheet of blank parchment that he had brought along to make copies, Harry felt grateful towards the copy-making spell that the Weasley Twins had taught Ron. Obviously, the copy it made couldn't pass for the original—there was no way they could make magical copies of their homework. But it was still useful for making copies from books, or in this case, student records.

Harry checked the room after he was done—no sign to indicate that he had been there today. Satisfied, he packed all the record copies into his bag and quietly left the room after checking the corridor. Slinging his bag on his shoulder, he began to make his way towards Gryffindor tower as quickly as his legs could carry him. He walked with a spring in his step; the fact that he had been right about Lockhart was an oddly pleasing thought. With a wide grin on his face, he told the week's password to the Fat Lady—the portrait that concealed the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

His grin didn't last, however. Sitting on the couch by the fireplace were Hermione and Ron, sombre expressions on their faces. On seeing Harry, Hermione walked over immediately.

"Where have you been? We've been waiting for more than an hour here. It's almost time for dinner"

"Hey, hey, relax," said Harry "I made it back in time, didn't I? Besides, I was in the records room," he added in a low voice.

"For five hours? You missed lunch"

"Well, I found something interesting. I think you should —" Harry stopped as he noticed their still serious expressions.

"What's the matter? Why were you guys waiting up for me?" Harry asked Hermione. He turned to Ron, who was standing behind her. "What's up with the worried faces?"

"That's because we were worried—we are worried Harry," said Hermione, after a moment. She gave Ron a quick glance. "Ron told me about you being a Parselmouth."

The penny dropped. Harry didn't know whether to feel sad or angry. This must have been the reason Ron didn't join him today—the essay must have been an excuse to talk to Hermione alone. Wondering whether to stay friends with Harry or not. And they had obviously come to a decision.

"So you guys decided then? Okay," he said after a while, trying to control the hurt in his voice. He failed. He wasn't that sad actually—just disappointed in himself. He understood that nobody would like to be friends with a freak like him. He was used to it.

Harry decided to not stay back any longer. Taking a deep breath, he began to head to the boy's dormitory, but was stopped as Hermione grabbed a hold of his arm.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"I thought you guys don't want to be my friends anymore. It's alright, I understand. I'll keep my distance," said Harry.

"What! Why would you think that?" Hermione asked, a confused expression on his face. Harry wasn't sure exactly what she was confused about.

"Because I'm a —" he paused. Turning to look at Ron, he continued, "You told me that it meant I was a dark wizard. I can understand. Nobody wants to be friends with —"

"Don't be daft Harry," Hermione snapped, to Harry's surprise. "We wouldn't stop being friends with you over such a silly thing," she said dismissively, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

Harry was confused. They didn't want to stop being friends with him? As if he'd read Harry's mind, Ron spoke next.

"Of course. We're friends Harry. The only reason I told Hermione was that I didn't want to hide it from her. You know she would've figured it out sooner or later. Sooner's better," he explained as if it were the most obvious thing ever.

"Parseltongue doesn't change you from what you are. It's just like being able to speak French, for example," said Hermione. This only confused Harry further.

"But then what were you worried about? You said earlier—"

"Well we understand, but others might not. There're still rumours floating around—about the Heir of Slytherin and all. Given that Slytherin was a Parselmouth—"

"— People might think I'm his heir," Harry finished. "But I didn't—"

"We know that Harry," said Ron, stressing every word. "We were there, standing beside you, remember? You couldn't have attacked Mrs Norris."

"We just want to make sure that no one catches hold of the fact that you're a Parselmouth," added Hermione

"Like Malfoy," said Ron. "He would love for you to get into trouble, especially for something he's responsible for—"

"Are you still on about that?"

"I'm telling you, it's him. He's behind the message, Hermione."

Harry watched as his friends started bickering; something that wasn't unusual for them. Clearly, this was part of an earlier argument. Harry cleared his throat, trying to draw their attention back to him before the arguments could grow further.

"You guys meant that? About—about being friends?"

"Of course, Harry." Hermione gave him a friendly smile, while Ron neared and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, mate. We're Gryffindors aren't we?"

The smile that had appeared on Harry's face melted off. Gryffindor. Why did Ron have to say that? One word and it had squashed the small bloom of hope in Harry's chest. Would they still want to be friends with him if they knew the whole truth? Harry decided to come clean, for their sake and for his. Their friendship could not be built on a lie.

"What if I told you the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin?" said Harry, holding his emotions in check. "That it insisted I be put in Slytherin?"

Harry's word had an immediate effect—like being hit by a jet of ice-cold water. Ron's face paled, his face undergoing a million different combination of expressions. Hermione's would have also been the same, except Harry could see her make an effort to show no change.

"I—I don't know what to say, Harry," said Hermione, after a few moments, her eyes darting at the floor in confusion. Ron, however, looked Harry in the eye.

"Why didn't it?"

"I—I asked it not to," said Harry immediately. Wasn't that obvious?

"Why?" asked Ron

"Why what?"

"Why did you ask that? Of the Hat? To not put you in Slytherin?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer but hesitated. To be honest, he hadn't expected this question. Especially not from Ron.

"Malfoy, on the train," said Harry. "And—and what Hagrid told me—that many dark wizards had been once in Slytherin."

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise, while Ron assumed a triumphant expression—as if he'd won the lottery.

"Then you have your answer, Harry," said Ron. "You might be ambitious; you might be cunning. Hell, you might be slimy as a snake. But you aren't mean or evil. You don't want to go dark. And as long as you want that—to not be evil—to be good, we'll stay as your friends."

Harry was dumbstruck, emotions surging within him. He glanced over at Hermione, who was watching Ron intently, her jaw hanging open in amazement.

"That—that was wonderful Ron," said Hermione after a minute. Turning to Harry she gave him a confident smile. "I agree with him. For the record, I think you're an idiot for ever doubting our friendship, Harry." She paused before continuing with a smirk, "Still, you're _our_ idiot."

Harry looked back and forth between his friends. He was lucky to have them. Ron, aware of the uncomfortable silence, gave Harry a solid pat on the back.

"I do prefer you dressed in red and gold, though. Need someone to kick Malfoy's arse at Quidditch, right?"

"Language, Ronald," said Hermione immediately, her tone half amused. She turned to Harry. "What was it that you wanted to show us before?"

Harry snapped in attention. He had almost forgotten all about it. As he reached for his bag, a predatory smile gripped his face. With a dramatic flush, he removed the large stack of parchments.

"Boys and girls, let me present to you the records of Mr Gilderoy Lockhart"

* * *

AN: I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'm extremely grateful for all the reviews that I have been getting from the readers, and for your feedback about my writing. I've taken note of the grammatical and vocabulary issues that have been pointed out and will make the corrections soon.

This chapter was a Harry only chapter. As the petrification attacks on the students didn't occur in here, there was no reason for the Duelling Club to established. As that didn't happen, Harry's parselmouth ability wasn't revealed to the public, and he wasn't vilified amongst the students. Instead, it is only his closest friends who find out about this. This, coupled with the fact that Harry didn't pull Gryffindor's sword from the Hat will have him embrace his Slytherin side instead of fighting it.

Since some of the readers might be unaware, I'm gradually rewriting old chapters along with new ones, and have thus far reached Chapter 14. The few chapters between 15 and 21 might seem different since they are still the old versions. I'm pretty satisfied with the quality after 22, and thus won't be changing them (beyond correcting errors) anytime soon.

Your feedback is welcome and appreciated. Please read and review. Thanks!


	33. Truth

**Truth**

* * *

29th November 1992

"Are you sure about this, Hermione?" Harry asked. He was absently playing with the grass on the ground, plucking out one blade at a time. The three of them were sitting in the shade of the big tree near the edge of the Black Lake, trying to figure out their next step with regards to the problem of Professor Lockhart.

"Absolutely. If we want to find answers, this is the best way to do it," she answered. Harry was amazed at the change in her once he had explained the suspicious records of Professor Lockhart.

"What will we need?"

"Firstly, we'll need to search the library for some advanced potions books," said Hermione. "One of them will have the information we need."

"Let me guess, these books will be in the restricted section of the library?" Ron turned to her with a sour look on his face. Hermione just nodded.

"We couldn't get in there _last year_ when we were searching for Nicolas Flamel, Hermione," Ron said exasperated. "What makes you think we can get in there _this_ time?"

"I don't know. Did you guys have the invisibility cloak then?" she asked and Ron nodded in reply. "I've learnt the silencing charm from Professor Flitwick. Perhaps that will silence those shrieking books," she pondered.

"What do you require to get in the restricted section? Normally?" Harry interrupted. A ghost of an idea was beginning to come to him.

"Since when have we done anything the normal way?" Ron scoffed.

"You'll need a signed permission slip from a Professor," Hermione answered, ignoring Ron. "They're informed of whatever books we check out."

"As if a professor would sign our permission slip in the first place," said Ron.

Harry wasn't listening to his friends anymore. His mind was running through the different scenarios that could take place. It could definitely work—if he could pull it off, that is.

"One professor might," Harry said finally, breaking up whatever bickering the other two had gotten up to in the meanwhile. Ron looked at him with interest, while Hermione looked with momentary suspicion—before she realised what he was implying.

"No. No, no, no—That's ridiculous Harry!" Hermione cried out. Ron, on the other hand, was still confused.

"What's ridiculous?"

"He's thinking of asking Professor Lockhart!" Hermione explained before turning towards him. "Tell him it's ridiculous!"

Harry watched with an amused expression as Ron gaped like a fish trying to digest this information, his face going through expressions that could only be summed up as comical.

"Harry," Ron said, his voice finally finding itself, "how exactly will you get Lockhart to sign the slip? 'Oh, Professor Lockhart, I was wondering if you'd sign this permission slip so that I can get the instructions for brewing an illegal potion—'"

"—technically it's a grey area," Hermione interrupted. Ron turned to look at her with an incredulous expression.

"Sorry," he said, "'—a _potion-of-questionable-legality-to-brew_, which'—wait for it—'we're going to use on _you_ to conduct an investigation into _your_ suspicious school records.' That's brilliant Harry. I wonder what Lockhart will say to that."

Harry waited patiently for Ron to finish, a bored expression on his face as he twirled a long blade of grass between his fingers

"Are you done?" he asked. "Look, all I'll need to do is get in detention with him."

Both Ron and Hermione just looked at him with further confusion. Confident about his plan, Harry was now just milking this for the most dramatic effect.

"How will that help?" Hermione finally asked.

"Because that's an opportunity to bond with him—celebrity to celebrity. Tell him how problematic m life is here at Hogwarts. Tell him how the Slytherins try and tarnish my image at every turn," "Tell him how Professor Snape takes every opportunity to try and pull me down," "Tell him how brewing an advanced potion might improve my standing in the class,"

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron finally said, "you're downright devious, aren't you?"

"Anyway, you aren't touching the potion at all. Only Hermione's qualified to handle it"

"Of course," Harry quickly replied. Hermione, however, had a furious look on her face.

"Of course _not_," she snapped. "You both _do_ _not_ get to dump this on me. Besides, think of the learning opportunity!"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted, "I think what Ron meant was that you'll be the one taking the lead on the brewing. We will assist you as required, of course." Ron was nodding vigorously, trying to hold onto the rope Harry had thrown him. Seeing that Hermione still did not look satisfied, Harry quickly added, "And learn by observation."

"What about the ingredients? Where can we get them from? I doubt OWL potion kits have them" Ron asked in an offhanded manner, trying to smoothly change the subject.

"No. We'll need to get them from Professor Snape's cupboards," Hermione answered. She was met with two identical looks of horror.

"Leave that to me. I have a plan for it," she continued, "Once we get everything, we'll set up the brewing in the abandoned second-floor bathroom."

"Isn't that the one near the Chamber message?" asked Ron.

"Yes. Mr Filch cleaned it already," she answered. "Once we begin, it should take a complete lunar cycle to brew. The holidays will be an ideal time for that"

"Okay."

"I still say we should use some on Malfoy. He'll—"

"Will you stop with Malfoy already?" Hermione interrupted Ron. "Look, whoever wrote that Chamber stuff was just spreading panic. There hasn't been a shred of activity since—"

"Doesn't mean there won't be," Ron retorted. "The Heir wants to target muggle-borns. What if it attacks you?"

"Hey," said Harry, "We can decide what to do with the potion _after_ its brewed." Both Ron and Hermione kept quiet at that. He turned to Hermione. "You sure it's foolproof?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. "It forces the drinker to tell the truth. Theoretically, you can build a slight immunity to it with over-exposure, but it's only that—_slight_ immunity. You can resist Veritaserum for a bit, but you can't outright _lie_."

* * *

9th December 1992

Mark made his way to the kitchens, his stomach slowly growling.

"Ah, Master Smith. Another salad?" Corky asked.

"Yes please." Mark sighed. Before the little elf could move away, he added, "Can you pack a few more? I'll be up tonight, and I don't want to come back down."

Corky looked at him with a sympathetic expression. Evidently, salads were not something elves thought very highly of.

"Very well, Master —" Before Corky could finish, they were interrupted by a loud argument from further inside the kitchen.

"—you have got to understand! This is important! Professor Dumbledore needs to be warned!" an unfamiliar squeaked. Now curious, Mark walked further inside towards wherever the voice was coming from.

"We will do no such thing! You is a bad elf, coming here against your master's orders. We will not help you any further," he saw one of the older Hogwarts elves say. The other one—a much more miserable-looking elf—seemed insistent on his point.

"But Dobby be telling you, the students are in danger!" The moment these words left its mouth, its large tennis-ball-sized eyes widened in fear and it hopped towards the nearest wall. Mark watched dumbstruck as this Dobby bashed its head on the solid stone wall, repeatedly muttering, "Bad Dobby, Bad dobby." If that wasn't enough, the older elf was completely unfazed by this behaviour, making no effort to stop Dobby. Instead, it got a smug expression on its face.

"See? You is being a bad elf, and elf magic be punishing you for it. You think we —" the elf stopped, just noticing Mark standing with a look of shock on his face. "Master Smith, sir. How can we be helping you, sir?"

"Just overheard you arguing. What's it about? Any problem?"

"Nothing sir. Just a bad elf that's need punishing," the elf said with a toothy grin.

"I can see that." Mark clenched his jaw, trying to control himself. "Maybe I can help him."

"You don't need to do that Master Smith —"

"I insist. Let me handle this" Mark interrupted, his tone tempered. The elf noticed, and promptly complied.

"Very well sir," the elf said, before it gave a low bow. Giving Dobby a dirty look, it went away to join the other elves in the kitchen.

Mark took a deep breath. The magical world was a weird place; especially the customs of house-elves. He looked over to the miserable-looking Dobby—dressed in a ragged pillowcase, the long fingers on its hands bandaged in soiled, yellowed linen. Miserable was an understatement.

"So Dobby was it?" asked Mark, squatting down to meet Dobby's eyes.

"Yes sir," the elf nodded, fear still evident in his eyes. He was probably wondering if Mark would punish him further. Mark decided to reassure him.

"My name's Mark. What was it that you want to tell Professor Dumbledore? Maybe I can help? Take a message, perhaps?"

"You will help poor Dobby sir?" the elf asked, surprise in its eyes.

"Yes. Should I not?" Mark asked hesitantly. He knew house-elf customs were weird, and he didn't want to offend anyone.

"No one has sought to help Dobby before, good sir," Dobby whispered softly, before remembering what he had come here for.

"You have to warn Professor Dumbledore, sir. There's a plot, a most evil plot at Hogwarts sir. The students, they will all be in danger, sir. Please you must tell him soon. It has already begun sir," said Dobby, before seizing up like he had done before. He hopped back to the wall.

"Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" Dobby banged his head once before Mark pulled him back.

"Hey, stop!" He held Dobby firmly—the elf was surprisingly strong. "What the hell, mate? Why are bashing your head like that?"

"Tis punishment sir, punishment." Dobby slouched, defeated expression on his face. Mark loosened his grip but kept his hand on the elf in case he decided to go bonkers again. "Dobby cannot go against his master's wishes, for he then has to punish himself."

"What? Why?" Mark was confused. He'd never seen any of the Hogwarts elves punishing themselves.

"It is the house-elf law, sir. Dobby's master orders Dobby to punish himself if he disobeys, and so Dobby has to," the elf cried.

It was too confusing. Following an order to punish yourself, because you broke an order? It made no sense.

"Well, what order have you broken?" asked Mark.

"Master told Dobby not to tell Professor Dumbledore or his friends sir. Dobby tries to go around it, but —"

Mark looked at Dobby with newfound respect as he understood the elf's actions. Dobby couldn't go against his master's explicit wishes, so he was trying to find potential loopholes. He was risking punishment and harm to ensure the safety of the students at Hogwarts—students who he had no affiliation with.

"Professor Dumbledore isn't my friend," said Mark, deciding to help this little elf. "In fact, I hate that guy," he lied. Thinking of more things to say about the Headmaster, Mark continued the charade.

"Stupid—white beard. Speaks in riddles. I hate riddles," said Mark, looking at Dobby, who widened his eyes at the last word. Suddenly everything clicked.

"Dobby, does the danger you speak of concern the Chamber of Secrets?" Mark asked in a low voice. He must have hit the mark, because Dobby widened his eyes in fear and tried moving towards the wall again.

"Wait!" Mark caught the elf, not loosening his grip. "No friend of Dumbledore, remember? Just nod or shake your head, alright?"

Mark saw Dobby think for a moment before nodding once.

"The Chamber?" asked Mark. Gulping, Dobby nodded once.

"How did you know sir?" he asked.

"Riddle. This has something to do with a certain Tom Riddle, hasn't it? And his Diary?"

"How?"

"Who's your master Dobby? A certain Lucius Malfoy, perhaps?" Marked asked, licking his lips in anticipation. Dobby began shaking his head wildly, trying to free himself from Mark's grasp.

"Bad Dobby! Bad —"

"Stop! You don't even have to confirm that."

Dobby now looked at Mark with a pleading expression.

"If you know of the danger sir, you must tell it to Professor Dumble—"

"Professor Dumbledore already knows Dobby," Mark said, "Because the danger has passed. Tom Riddle is gone. The Diary has been destroyed. The Basilisk is dead."

Dobby looked at him dumbstruck. Clearly, the elf had not expected that response.

"How? Are you sure sir?" asked Dobby.

"Pretty sure. Saw it with my own eyes."

"Professor Dumbledore killed the monster?"

Mark's face must have betrayed him, for Dobby immediately realised the truth.

"You did," Dobby whispered, eyes wide in awe. He took a few moments to digest this information before looking at Mark with admiration.

"Dobby is honoured to meet a great wizard like you Mark Smith! Never had he imagined the danger had already been thwarted. You is a great wizard! Dobby will sing songs of your greatness sir!"

Mark cursed inwardly. This was not good. Songs of greatness were the exact opposite of what they were trying to achieve.

"Yeah, listen," he said, trying to draw the attention of the exhilarated elf. "You can't tell anyone. It's being kept a secret," he explained in a serious tone.

"But sir —" Dobby tried to protest. Mark kept a hand on Dobby's shoulder and tried summing it up as shortly as he could.

"There are more important things than greatness, Dobby."

His words had an immediate effect, and frankly, Mark was surprised by it. Dobby tensed up, his face immediately losing any expression of protest. Instead, the small elf looked at Mark with a peculiar expression. If he didn't know better, Mark would have thought Dobby was looking into his mind. Finally, after a minute, the elf spoke.

"Dobby understands sir. Dobby understands perfectly."

Mark watched Dobby walk away slowly, his pace slow and reserved; it was as if he was seeing an entirely different elf.

"It is over. The darkness has passed," said Dobby, his voice calm. There was no sign of the earlier frenzy or panic—this Dobby was an elegant being, all too out of place dressed in a dirty pillowcase.

"The Malfoys don't treat you well, do they?" asked Mark. Dobby turned to look at him, a despondent look in his large eyes.

"Dobby does not wish to speak ill of his master, sir"

Mark wasn't ready to accept that answer. He wanted to know more—understand what exactly Dobby's life was like. Deciding to make the elf more comfortable, he sat down cross-legged on the floor.

"Tell me your side of it, Dobby. Why are you wearing that dirty rag? I thought the Malfoys were rich. The elves here are dressed well."

"Tis a mark of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be free is his masters present him with clothes, sir."

"Clothes? But don't you have to do their laundry and stuff?" Mark asked confused.

"Yes sir. But the Masters never _hand_ Dobby the clothes. They're put in the basket from where Dobby needs to take it." Dobby paused and looked directly into Mark's eyes, beckoning him to understand. "The Masters take special care that not even a sock is passed to Dobby sir. He will stay in their service till he dies."

"So, you're saying that if they pass you a sock, intentionally or not, you would be free?" Mark asked, trying to understand the implications of Dobby's statement.

"Yes. Dobby can claim they gave Dobby clothes, and thus he would be free."

"Do you want to be free?"

"Dobby doesn't understand the question, sir."

"Freedom is having a choice, Dobby," said Mark. "Do you want to leave the service of the Malfoys?"

Dobby thought for a moment, considering Mark's statement. After a few moments, he gave a firm nod. Mark took a deep breath, nodding to himself. An idea was swirling in his mind—something with potential.

"Okay. I might have an idea to help you with it. But it'll take time." He didn't want to give Dobby high hopes yet. Dobby, however, seemed content with even the _idea_ of hope.

"Mark Smith will help Dobby gain his freedom? Mark Smith truly is a great wizard," he whispered. "Dobby is willing to wait as long as it takes, sir."

"Okay then. How do I contact you?"

"Just call for Dobby's name, sir. Dobby will appear as soon as he can."

* * *

20th December 1992

As Harry piled in some more mashed potatoes onto his plate his mind turned towards the grand plan to interrogate Lockhart. They were successful through all the parts of the first phase; they had everything they required to make the Veritaserum. Everything had gone just according to plan, and Harry wondered whether that implied that something would go wrong now.

As decided, Harry had gotten himself in detention with Professor Lockhart by not submitting a piece of homework. To his surprise, Professor Lockhart had offered to let the detention slide—a favour from one celebrity to another, he had called it. Harry, panicked at losing the chance, asserted that he be punished for the infraction—after all, no one should claim that he was using his fame like this right? Thankfully Lockhart had lapped up the explanation and Harry found himself with him in detention that night. The conversation that Harry had planned went along exactly as he intended—actually a bit better since Lockhart even offered to personally tutor Harry in potions. Regardless, Harry managed to get the permission slip without a hitch. Once they had the slip, a quick search provided them with the book they required—_Moste Potente Potions_ by Phineas Bourne.

Now that they had the information, it was time for the ingredients. Hermione's plan had been brilliant—she had him and Ron create a well-timed distraction during a potions class, while she quietly made her way to raid Snape's cupboards for all that they required. The Hellebore that Ron aimed directly into Goyle's cauldron created enough smoke to fill that classroom twice in less than a minute and kept Snape occupied long enough for their potions heist. Perfectly planned and perfectly executed.

Now that they had everything they required, they were ready to commence the next phase of the plan; actually brewing the potion. Hermione had chosen the abandoned bathroom as the site for their illegal brewing activities. The only thing they were waiting for was the correct moon phase to begin the process. It would take a full lunar cycle—the first half included timely additions of all the correctly prepared ingredients, while the next half required for a prolonged distillation of the potion. The finished Veritaserum was supposed to be a crystal-clear liquid—colourless, odourless, and essentially indistinguishable from water. Once they had it, all their questions could be answered.

Any further musings of Harry were interrupted when Professor Dumbledore stood up to address the students, raising the silver goblet in his hand and tapping it with a spoon

_"__clink, clink, clink."_

The sound made by the goblet somehow managed to draw the attention of everyone in the Great Hall despite being barely audible. The loud chattering and multitude of conversations came to a halt, and a pin drop silence gripped the room within moments.

"Now that we all have been well fed, and our spirits high for the coming holiday, I have an important announcement to make," said Professor Dumbledore. Confident that every eye in the room was upon him, he continued.

"As you may recall, after the great feast on Halloween this year, there was a rather unfortunate incident which took place. Mrs Norris, the beloved cat belonging to our caretaker Mr Argus Filch was attacked and petrified, while a certain message—a warning of sorts was painted on the wall outside the girl's bathrooms on the second floor."

Harry glanced around. Somehow the room had gotten quieter and sombre, even though no one had been making a sound before. It was as if the beating hearts of the students had quietened themselves as well. Professor Dumbledore, who had had a sombre expression on his face until now, suddenly smiled with his usual cheeriness.

"Well, I'm now pleased to inform you that you need not worry about the matter anymore, for it has been dealt with," he said. "After another search, the long-lost Chamber of Secrets was finally found, and so was the monster inside. I can now confirm that it is indeed dead." Whispers broke out in the room, and Professor Dumbledore continued his speech. "The entrance has now been sealed, for it now serves no other purpose than temptation for the curious soul."

Harry reeled back in surprise. Dealt with? He looked around the table, trying to see what reactions the others were having. Hermione—as was usual for her when a teacher was speaking—was attentively listening to Professor Dumbledore's every word. Ron, on the other hand, was staring gobsmacked—likely thinking about Malfoy and his connection to all this. The other students were in a state of mixed worry and relief. Ginny Weasley—Ron's little sister—looked as if she was silently praying. Harry gathered that the poor girl must have been really worried about the danger from the Chamber. He remembered Fred mentioning something about her being disturbed by the attack on Mrs Norris.

"As for the attack on the poor feline," said Professor Dumbledore, "the agent responsible—a former student of Hogwarts—has been administered with adequate punishment." Audible whispers broke out in the hall, all wondering who this culprit was. "Professor Sprout informs me that the Mandrakes are maturing at a faster pace than expected, so I believe it will only be a matter of months before the Restorative Draught is ready and Mrs Norris makes a full recovery."

Well, that ruled out Malfoy. Former student—that meant someone not currently at Hogwarts. Harry wondered how Ron was going to react to that, and more importantly, what Hermione would think of Ron's reaction. Sometimes all they needed was a push to tumble into an argument.

Still, the question remained. Who was responsible? And why did they attack the school, if they weren't a student? Was Voldemort involved? No, Dobby had said Voldemort had nothing to do with this. But wait—how exactly _was_ Dobby involved?

All of these questions swirled inside Harry's brain, their echoes mimicking the building whispers and nervous chatters in the room. Professor Dumbledore interrupted them all, taking charge of the situation.

"I wish to declare the matter of the Chamber of Secrets closed; it would not do well if a student is found inciting needless rumours and panic on the subject."

Harry watched in amazement as the whispers died once more; Professor Dumbledore's words had been more of a warning than a piece of advice. Grudgingly, Harry agreed with the sentiment. There was no need to keep propounding rumours about something that was no longer of concern. Once the hall was silent again, Professor Dumbledore gave a jovial smile, extending his arms out like a happy child.

"Now, I wish you all a Happy Christmas, and a joyous holiday. Thank you."

* * *

21st December 1992

"You think we'll be reaching soon?"

Mark jerked back to attention on hearing Neville's voice. His friend must have finished his nap.

"Yeah. We passed Cambridge a quarter-of-an-hour ago," said Mark. Neville nodded thoughtfully at that, then closed his eyes and dozed off again. Mark snorted before turning his attention back out the window. As the varied landscape of suburban England zoomed past, Mark began thinking about his ongoing research.

He had reached a dead end. No one in the history of magical medicine had ever dealt with anything similar to leukaemia. He had found certain references to things which he figured out were tumours—in those cases, they had used specialized severing spells to cut the growths safely from the patient's body. But that was of no use here. Blood cancer would require something else.

Mark wondered if he could pop by his old school while he was at home—the chemistry lab there had some useful equipment. Mr Trentham—the chemistry teacher—would most likely be still there. A few of the eclairs from his favourite bakery in Wimbledon and some buttering up should get him a couple of hours at the equipment. Once he had the required information, he would send in a progress report to the Flamels. Before he set out onto his next step, Mark needed an opinion on his hypothesis. Safety was obviously the primary concern here, and Mark was not going to take it lightly.

As they pulled into London, Mark's mind wandered to the incident with the Chamber. As much as he hated to admit it, it had left an imprint on him. On the positive side, his aversion to reptiles had reduced considerably—nothing to cure a little Herpetophobia like being pinned under the scaly carcass of a forty-foot snake. On the negative side—well, there were a lot of things to worry about. Were they doing the right thing, keeping all this a secret? Would the secret even stay hidden? What would happen if it didn't? What should they do when spills out? After all, growing up with his dad had taught Mark to think of every eventuality in situations like this.

Mark had tried to gauge the students' reactions when Professor Dumbledore gave the speech at the feast last night. To his slight surprise, all of them lapped it up quite easily. Technically, Professor Dumbledore hadn't even lied to them—he just omitted a few key details that were of no concern to anyone.

Mark jerked forward a bit as the train came to a halt. He stood up and stretched himself, giving the sleeping form of Neville a kick on the leg.

"Wake up. We're here."

Neville nodded as he opened his eyes. Giving a good yawn, he stood up and gathered all his things. Once they had their things, they clambered out of the compartment. Mark scanned the platform, looking for any sign of Edwin; he was surprised to see someone else standing in wait for him, looking hale and hearty.

"Oi Nev, it's my Dad. Come on, let me introduce you," said Mark, a huge grin on his face. The two of them shuffled through the growing crowd on the platform as they made their way towards where Mark's dad was standing.

"Hey there champ." His dad gave him a tight one-armed hug.

"Hey Dad," said Mark. Turning back towards his friend, he made the introductions. "Dad, this is my friend Neville Longbottom. Neville, this is my Dad."

"Hello Mr Smith," said Neville, a hint of nervousness in his tone.

"Pleased to meet you, Neville," said Mark's Dad. "I hear you're a good drummer."

Mark tuned out the conversation as he looked around the platform, his eyes darting in search of something, or rather, someone. When he found her, he gave an automatic sigh of relief. There she was—Ginny, with her brilliant red hair. Mark saw her search the platform, her eyes skimming over where he was standing. They too found what they were looking for—a pair of red-haired adults. Her parents.

"I—uh, I've barely begun playing sir," Mark heard Neville say. "I don't think I play anywhere near good."

Ginny's parents walked towards her swiftly embracing her in a tight hug. Mark noticed that even after the welcome was over, Ginny's mum was still holding on to her daughter's arm rather tightly.

"Nonsense. Mark tells me you're the best he's ever seen." Mark turned back to his Dad at the mention of his name. Processing the skipped conversation, he nodded enthusiastically. Neville got even shyer at this; something Mark noticed and his Dad noticed as well.

"Very well, tell me this. Do you know which part on the drums does what?" asked his Dad.

"Yes sir," Neville answered.

"Do you like playing? Genuinely enjoy the struggle of learning a new piece?"

Mark realised where the conversation was headed and smiled. His dad had had a similar conversation with him a couple of years ago. He watched as Neville considered all the implications of the question before deciding to answer.

"Yes."

"Do you want to improve?"

"Of course," Neville said at once, his face fraught with confusion.

"Then you have it, son. You're a good drummer," said Mark's Dad keeping a hand on Neville's shoulder. "Good drummers—good musicians—are those who enjoy the struggle and want to improve themselves." He squeezed Neville's shoulder a bit before he continued.

"Once upon a time, I enjoyed the struggle as well. Now not so much. Maybe that will happen to you. Maybe it won't. As long as you're enjoying and learning, it's a win either way, isn't it?"

Mark watched a new look bloom on Neville's face; one of real confidence. He smiled at his Dad in pride.

"Yes. Yes, sir," Neville finally spoke, his eyes glistening slightly.

"Good," said Mark's Dad, releasing Neville's shoulder. He offered his hand for Neville to shake. "It was nice meeting you, Mr Longbottom."

"Nice meeting you too, sir," said Neville, giving a firm handshake in return.

Mark offered Neville a fist bump, which his friend promptly returned. As he turned back to follow his Dad, Mark glanced around the Platform one more time. There was no sign of the Weasleys—they had already left. He hoped that they had a happy Christmas this year; Ginny certainly needed it.

* * *

AN: This chapter moves forward with Harry's plan against Lockhart, and also introduces Mark and Dobby to each other. Since things have changed from canon, Dobby isn't yet a free elf. House elf laws and magic will be a subject this story expands upon in the future, and Dobby will have a fairly substantial role in the story further ahead.

The trio are now brewing Veritaserum as opposed to Polyjuice in order to question Lockhart. Since this plot point is new, I hope you guys like it.

Your feedback is appreciated. Please Read and Review!


	34. Fizzled Out

**Fizzled Out**

* * *

27th December 1992

Ginny rinsed the plate in her hand before putting it up on the rack to dry. Picking up the next one, she began to scrub it mechanically.

Of all the chores, she always preferred to do the dishes above anything else. In an odd way, it was almost soothing—the repetitive nature of the task kept her mind occupied, yet leaving it free enough to wander off wildly.

Ever since her parents had learned about the diary, Ginny had found herself suffocating in her mother's concerns. Their weekly meetings in Headmaster Dumbledore's office were usually filled with stern interrogations about her activities during the week. Ginny was glad that her dad was also present during these meetings; She wasn't sure whether her mother believed that she was a victim or thought of her as the culprit. To be honest, Ginny wasn't sure either.

Either way, Ginny found herself resenting her first year at Hogwarts. Bill and Charlie and all her brothers had always droned on about the magical experience that was their first year at Hogwarts, and thus she had boarded the Hogwarts Express with the same expectations. And nearly three months later, she had been dreading the Christmas break and her return to the Burrow.

But now, almost a week in, Ginny found her break to be much more cheerful than she had expected it to be the day she arrived from the Express. Of course, staying back at Hogwarts would've been better—maybe she would even have had some opportunities to make some friends. Amongst all his machinations, Tom had managed to ensure that she made no new connections at Hogwarts—he must have been threatened by her friendship with Mark on the Express. Well, he was right to be threatened in the end, wasn't he? It was what had helped Ginny escape his clutches.

As she picked up the next dish, Ginny's mind wandered to the wonderful Christmas they had had last year when they visited Charlie in Romania. The snow-covered countryside had been something straight out of a fairy tale. And the dragons—they were just so beautiful. Something had awakened inside Ginny that day, on seeing the majestic dragons full of fierce strength and fiery warmth. It spoke to her, deep inside her heart—spoke to her by letting out a huge burst of flames into the air and spreading its gigantic wings far wide.

As she watched the water now slide off the plate in her hand, Ginny realised that Tom had managed to snuff out some of that flame in her. Not all—Ginny wouldn't give him the satisfaction of that. But some? Yes. He had shaken her confidence away. She—who always believed herself to be much more mature than her age—had been reminded of the fact that she was nothing more than a kid. A stupid kid who put her trust in the wrong person.

She wished she could talk to Bill. As much as Ginny loved her dad, there were some things you couldn't tell a parent—especially if there was a remote chance of her mother finding out. Ginny considered writing it down on a letter to Bill, but she couldn't. The moment her quill touched the parchment, it was like Tom all over again. There was no way she could pen her thoughts on paper or parchment again. At least not for a while.

* * *

30th December 1992

Sitting cross-legged on the cold bathroom floor, Harry silently observed as Hermione leaned over the bubbling cauldron with a stirring spoon in her hand. So far, everything was going according to plan. Harry watched as Ron drummed his fingers on the tiled floor.

"What's next?" he asked, his impatience spilling over.

"Fluxweed," answered Hermione, not bothering to look up from the cauldron. "Is it chopped?"

"Yes," replied Harry, passing her the board on which he had prepared the ingredients. She took it absently before her eyes flickered over the cut-up magical herb. Harry panicked a little as a shocked expression came onto her face. He hadn't messed up, had he?

"Wow Harry," said Hermione, after a long pause. "These have been done fantastically. I've never managed to make the cuts so uniform," she added, her voice hiding a hint of envy.

"Harry's cuts are always uniform," Ron chipped in a bored voice. "Snape still manages to find faults in them, though."

"Professor Snape, Ron," muttered Hermione, still examining the Fluxweed. Harry began to feel a little uncomfortable at the less-than-deserved praise. After all, the only reason he was good at it was that he had spent large amounts of time prepping for the kitchen work at home. That and the fact that Aunt Petunia had far stricter standards for uniform cuts than Snape. Deciding to change the topic, he turned to Hermione.

"What did you tell your parents? About staying back during the holidays?"

"Just that I wanted to experience the Christmas celebrations at Hogwarts. Learn more about magic," said Hermione. "I'll be going home for Easter though," she added after a moment in a guilty tone.

"That's alright Hermione," said Harry, trying to reassure her. "You shouldn't sacrifice spending time with your family for us."

"What about you Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you be going home during the Easter break?"

"I don't think so. The Dursley's will likely be gone on vacation then. And I prefer staying at the Castle anyway. I wish I could, even during the summers." Harry looked up to see Hermione observing him a little too carefully for his comfort. Realising that he might have shared a bit more than he had intended, Harry decided to turn the topic back to the bubbling cauldron.

"How many times does it say to stir?" he asked, trying to sound as offhanded as possible as he peered into the potion.

"Thirteen clockwise for one anticlockwise. Repeat twenty-three times," Hermione replied in her usual rote tone. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that her face was still holding the same inquisitive expression. Fortunately for him, Ron's impatience came to his rescue.

"When does the powdered bicorn horn go in?"

"The twelfth day—day after tomorrow," answered Hermione turning to look at him.

"Are you sure you've got the right one? I remember reading in the book that it's supposed to be all curly."

"That's the other bicorn horn—it has two types of horn. The one you're referring to goes in Polyjuice Potion," she clarified. Ron looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"How do you know that?"

"I may have copied all the other potions in the book as well," Hermione answered with a hint of smugness. "Never know when something might come in handy."

Both Harry and Ron nodded in agreement, and Hermione continued with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Are _you_ sure you don't want to keep a vial of the Veritaserum. To interrogate Malfoy?"

"Ha-Ha. Laugh all you want. I was wrong, and you were right. Happy?"

"Of course, I was right," she scoffed. "When am I not?"

Harry decided to interrupt the banter with the thoughts currently on his mind.

"We haven't yet worked out how to get the potion to Lockhart."

"Easy. Just put it in his pumpkin juice," Ron answered casually. "He won't notice it. This is Lockhart we're talking about."

"Yes, this is Lockhart we're talking about. A man like him—with secrets to hide—he won't just drink any pumpkin juice. I bet he gets his food tested beforehand, for any potions and such," Harry said testily, trying to make Ron understand the seriousness of the problem.

"It is very possible that's the case, Ron," Hermione said, turning back towards the bubbling cauldron to add another stir. "Even if he didn't have secrets, he's still a celebrity. There's the possibility someone might him slip him a love potion or something."

Harry closed his eyes as he tried to think of different ways he could try and convince Lockhart to drink something without testing it for potions. Judging by the silence of the room, the others were too. Finally, Ron broke the silence.

"Maybe we can give him something exotic—something that's not available easily. Like elf-wine, or Firewhiskey."

"Ron, we're barely thirteen," retorted Hermione. "If we give him a bottle of Firewhiskey—assuming we can afford one and get our hands on it—it will still raise a lot of red flags."

"Flags? Why would someone raise red flags?"

"It's a figure of speech, Ron."

"Maybe Ron's right," said Harry after a moment. "Not about giving Lockhart Firewhiskey. But about something exotic." A hint of a plan was slowly bubbling away in Harry's mind. After a moment he turned to Hermione. "Do you reckon Lockhart's ever had some Cola?"

"What's Cola?" asked Ron, but both Harry and Hermione ignored him.

"That could work. I could ask my parents to send a couple of cans," Hermione replied. "Still, the problem remains. Lockhart will still test it for potions."

"Leave that to me." Harry turned his concentration back to the bubbling cauldron. "I have an idea"

* * *

3rd January 1993

_'tap, tap'_

Mark knocked on the compartment door to where Ginny was sitting. To his slight surprise, she was sitting alone, staring out the window at the passing scenery. She turned to see him standing in the doorway.

"Can I come in?" Mark asked.

"Yes. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Mark answered, stepping inside before taking a seat in front of her. "Neville's dozed off. Just thought to check up on you."

Ginny looked at him oddly; as if she was still lost in thought, barely present inside the compartment.

"Okay. Thanks," she finally replied. Realising that she wasn't going to initiate the conversation, Mark decided to do it himself.

"How was your holiday? Everything went okay?"

"Yes," she replied after a moment, looking away at her feet. "It went—alright."

Mark could sense that she wasn't entirely being honest, and he could guess the reason why.

"Everything okay with your mum and dad?" he asked. Ginny snapped her head back towards him, embarrassment and panic etched on her face. Deciding to reassure her, Mark just gave her a soft, encouraging smile. He watched the tension slowly disappear from her shoulder, her defensive shell finally cracking away. Looking at him, Ginny finally just gave a shrug in reply.

Okay then. Everything wasn't okay with Ginny's parents. It wasn't exactly unexpected, given what he had seen that day in Professor Dumbledore's office. Ginny must have felt as awkward as he had in the prolonged silence. She turned to look at him.

"How about you?" she asked. "How was your Christmas?"

"As usual. Spent some time with my dad," Mark replied casually. "He's always excited to know more about magic. Keeps asking me all about what I learned and how the spells work."

Ginny chuckled at this, and Mark felt better for the first time since entering the compartment.

"My dad's the same way—about muggles that is," Ginny said. "Sorry—non-magicals."

"Huh?"

"Fred mentioned you don't like the word muggle."

"Ah." Mark realised what she had meant earlier. "Well yes, I don't prefer it. Sounds a bit condescending in my opinion. But it's in common use, and most people don't use it in a condescending manner, so I'm okay with it now. You don't have to —"

"But I will. You're right, it doesn't sound very polite. I told my dad about it and he agreed too. It just slipped out earlier." Ginny defended him. "After all, we have to start somewhere, don't we?"

A small part of Mark wanted to insist that it was alright, while another felt overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness. He decided to stick to an intermediate response.

"Thanks," said Mark. "You were saying something about your dad?"

"Oh—yes. He's crazy about all the non-magical stuff," Ginny said, her pride for her father evident. "Fascinated by the technology. Keeps experimenting with plugs and everything in the workshop."

"Is he the one who enchanted the car Ron flew into the Whomping Willow?" asked Mark. Of the entire incident, the car had been what had drawn Mark's attention the most. Ginny nodded in reply.

"I helped him a bit too, you know," she added after a moment.

"Really?!" Mark exclaimed. "That must have been fascinating!" Suddenly he remembered something. "Wait—you said he experiments with plugs? Is he trying to circumvent magical interference to electricity?" If Mr Weasley was trying to do what Mark thought he was trying to do, then perhaps it could solve the problem of shielding his electric guitar from the magic at Hogwarts. And probably a lot more.

"I think so," Ginny said, her eyes furrowed as she tried to remember something. Finally, she gave up and turned to Mark. "I can ask him if you like. He writes down all his observations—keeps records. I'm sure he'll be happy to send you a copy."

_Written_ data and observations? From someone who had enchanted a car to _fly_? Mark couldn't believe his ears, and he stared at Ginny as if she had handed him the most precious thing in the world.

"That's amazing," he finally whispered. If he would have been more aware, Mark would have realised that his reaction was less than articulate. But Ginny didn't seem to mind—she understood the sentiment alright.

"That's just my dad. He'll be happy that someone's interested," said Ginny in a dejected tone.

"Of course, I'm interested," said Mark. "Who wouldn't?"

He was surprised when Ginny snorted in reply, turning back to look out the window.

"Tell that to my mother," she said, "She thinks it's a complete waste of time, a grown man like him spending his time tinkering in the workshop."

Mark didn't really know what to reply to that. Sensing that Ginny was more vocal now, he decided to ask her his earlier question.

"Everything went okay with her?"

"Of course," Ginny replied, a little too quickly. "Why wouldn't it?" Mark stared at her with his head cocked, trying to give her his most sceptical look. It worked, and Ginny finally relented.

"She's okay now that my punishment is decided," she said with a sigh, her fingers picking absently at her faded black Hogwarts robe.

"What's that?" Mark asked. Ginny didn't answer immediately, looking out the window in an effort to avoid his gaze.

"No Quidditch," she finally answered in a low voice.

_"What?" _

Mark had actually wanted to exclaim it out loud, but in the shock, it ended up turning into a throaty whisper.

"No Quidditch," Ginny repeated; her voice stronger. "At least until my third year. So that I'll remember to be more careful in the future."

Mark's head reeled with a million thoughts. He didn't understand what to make of Ginny's punishment. On one hand, he wanted to object against the idea of punishing Ginny for something that wasn't even her fault, while on the other—well he wasn't exactly sure if there was another side to this argument. But they were Ginny's parents, and Mark knew for a fact that not every kid had a relationship with their parent like he did with his Dad.

"Are you—are you okay with it?" he finally asked, unsure of his own thoughts.

"As long as I get to fly. It's not like I can make the team while the current chasers are still at school, right?"

"No, but there's the reserve team. I would have liked someone to practice alongside," Mark pointed out, a small part of him angry at Ginny's easy acceptance of the issue.

"I don't even have a broom," Ginny replied, clearly not wanting to discuss the issue any further. Mark nodded to himself in understanding.

"Neither do I," he said after a moment, "which reminds me, what broom do you think I should get?"

Ginny looked up at him with her eyes narrowed; she was aware of his obvious change in topic.

"You're asking me? Why?" she finally asked.

"Why not?"

"I meant why would you ask me?"

"Are you in some way disqualified to answer?" Mark asked, miffed at her obvious non-cooperation.

"No, but there are other, more qualified people you could ask," she retorted sourly.

"What makes you think I didn't ask them already?"

"Oh, so I am the last person you come to for advice, then?"

"No, that's not what I —" Mark began to apologize before noticing a mischievous glint in Ginny's eyes. "I see what you did there. It's not nice to take advantage of me like that, you know."

"Who, me? I'm just a poor little girl. What could I possibly do?"

"I can see that." Mark grinned at her. He decided to rile her up a little. "I can see exactly what George was talking about when he called you a cunning little —"

It worked since Ginny immediately pounced and punched him on his arm. Mark tried tickling her a little but she sat back in her seat immediately.

"Ow," Mark cried loudly as he nursed his arm exaggeratedly. "I think you broke it," he lied.

"Shut up," said Ginny. "I didn't even hit you that hard." She turned and pointedly looked out of the window.

The two of them stayed quiet for a while, with only the sound of the moving Express filling in the silence. As the train swayed gently on a turn, Mark felt glad that there was a smile on Ginny's face.

"You didn't answer my question. What broom should I buy?"

Ginny turned back at him and considered the question for a moment.

"I don't know. That would depend a lot on your budget."

Mark nodded in reply before replying.

"I figured as much. Consider there's no budget."

"Then go buy the Nimbus 2001. It's the best broom on the market"

"Come on Ginny, you can do better than that. The Nimbus is a seeker's broom. I tried Harry's. Too light on the controls and too heavy on the acceleration."

"You'll get used to it," she said, now seemingly disinterested in the conversation.

"Alright, forget all of that," said Mark. "What broom would you get? If you could wish for one broom for yourself, what would it be?"

Ginny cocked her head as she thought of the question. After a moment, she turned back at him.

"Any broom? Or just the ones currently in the market?" she asked. Mark was slightly surprised at the question, but his curiosity sought an answer.

"Any broom that exists, or existed," he clarified. "Why, you want an older broom?"

"If I could, yes. An Oakshaft 1400," she replied, her eyes radiating in excitement. "It was released in 1854. I saw one once when we went to watch a quidditch match at Holyhead. It was kept there, in the hall of fame. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen." Her reverie must have been broken on seeing the large grin on Mark's face, and she looked at him pointedly.

"What?"

"Nothing. Its—you just sound like my dad. He's got a thing too, for old cars. He has a '63 Morgan Plus 4. Four-seater convertible, British racing green—a beautiful thing," Mark said, picturing the car and his Dad's obsession with it. "He keeps tweaking with it, you know—trying to customise it. We worked on it a lot when I was younger. Don't get much chance now," he paused, trying to keep his emotions in check. Turning back to Ginny, he smiled.

"So Oakshaft?"

Ginny nodded as she propped her head on her arm.

"Yes. It isn't really available anymore. Stopped production ages ago—there isn't really a market for old brooms in the magical world."

* * *

AN: Another chapter and we covered the Christmas break. We are halfway through Year 2 and thus halfway through Book 1. As is evident, Harry, Ron, and Hermione's plan for Lockhart forms the second major event for Year 2. Meanwhile, Mark's primary focus during Book 1 will be to work on the cure for his Dad.

Recently, I received a review criticising the need for the multiple POV's in the narrative, stating instead that the focus of the book should be on Mark as it was on Harry in the original stories.

Although I appreciate the sentiment of the reader, I would like to point out that the name of the story **isn't** "Mark Smith and the XYZ". It is "The Three Brothers." It is **not** an account of Mark Smith's years at Hogwarts, but rather a tale in which he is a prime character. Even though the canon characters have mainly paraphrased the events from the original books until now, the story _will_ change considerably. By Book 2, _none_ of these characters will behave or act the way they did before.

As far as the rewrite of the old chapters, I have now reworked and updated Chapters 15, 16, and 17. Give them a look if you haven't before. (All reworked chapters have the chapter title in bold on the top; if a chapter doesn't have it, it means it is the old version)

With the COVID-19 pandemic now becoming critical, I wish all of you the very best. Please take care: practice social distancing and personal hygiene.

Your feedback is welcome! Please read and review.


	35. Patience

**Patience**

* * *

10th January 1993

Harry gripped his broom tighter as he zoomed through the many loops that Wood had set up for him to practice. Although it was freezing outside, he found his hands clammy with sweat. But Harry didn't really mind. Even though he had been flying for more than a year now, he still felt the same exhilaration every time he sat on his Nimbus and shot off into the sky.

Up there, he felt he owned the sky. Up there, he felt free.

But lately, Harry found himself lost in a sea of thoughts. He found himself unsure—unsure of what he was supposed to do, unsure of how he was supposed to do it, and perhaps most alarmingly, unsure of himself.

All his life, before coming to Hogwarts that is, Harry had been alone. Though he had lived with the Dursleys since he was one, they never considered him one of their own and Harry had been happy to reciprocate that feeling. Even though he had to do a mountain of chores, listen to whatever drivel the Dursleys poured on him, and become the primary target of Dudley's 'Harry Hunting', Harry had always felt in control of his actions. He had always been sure of his actions; even if said actions would earn him long punishments and starvings, he had always been sure of them.

But ever since last year, that had changed. Now he had friends, and Harry was afraid for them. The incident with Quirrell had shown him the truth; the possibility of dire consequences, all because he had been too sure of his actions. His actions could get his friends hurt; could get them killed. And that scared Harry.

It wasn't as if Harry was not grateful for his friends. On the contrary, Harry often felt like the luckiest guy alive. Of all the first-year Gryffindors, Ron and Hermione were the only ones who had stayed back along with him during the Christmas hols. Granted, the main reason for doing so was that they could illicitly brew Veritaserum, but Harry knew they wanted to keep him company; to make sure he wasn't left alone.

And that was the crux of the issue. That night, when Harry had decided to go and try to protect the Philosopher's Stone himself, his friends had insisted that they join him despite his protestations. Even Neville and Mark, once they knew of the danger, refused to leave him alone to face the danger.

What was he supposed to do then? And what was he supposed to do now, when they came face to face with danger again? They were planning to question Lockhart with Veritaserum; a plan in which a million things could go wrong. And now, for the first time in his life, Harry didn't feel sure of himself.

As he rolled left through the final hoop and began to descend, Harry wondered how the whole business with Lockhart was going to go. Now that the potion was days away from being complete, Harry's mind kept wondering about how they were going to give it to Lockhart and how he would react to it. Now that the classes had commenced once again, Lockhart was even more insufferable than ever.

The lessons were still useless; all they consisted of were elaborate enactments from various sections of his many books. And now, ever since Professor Dumbledore had announced that the Chamber of Secrets was real and that the monster inside had been killed, the rumour roaming around the castle was that it was Lockhart who was responsible for the heroic deed.

Harry was willing to bet his broom that it was Lockhart who had started the rumour in the first place.

In any case, they would know the truth soon enough. Shouldering his broom, Harry began to walk towards the changing rooms. Ever since they had lost their chance at the Quidditch Cup last year, Wood had been more tougher on them during their practices. Harry couldn't exactly blame him; having a Quidditch Cup win on his record would really help Wood's future prospects as a professional quidditch player. Harry was determined to not let him down this time. As Harry remembered their last match against Slytherin, he was painfully reminded of the rogue Bludger that had smashed into his arm as well as the individual responsible for the same; Dobby.

Harry wondered what had happened to Dobby. The little elf had singlehandedly wrecked his summer, tried to prevent his coming to Hogwarts by closing the barrier at platform nine-and-three-quarters, and finally, he let loose the rogue Bludger against him in the last match. All because he thought Harry was in danger at the school.

And now the danger was gone. At least that was what Professor Dumbledore had said that day. Somehow, Harry wasn't exactly satisfied with the explanation that had been given to the students before the Christmas break. What was the monster inside the chamber? And exactly who was responsible for opening it? For attacking Mrs Norris and leaving that message on the wall? And if what Dobby had said was true, then the chamber had been opened once before. Who had opened it back then?

As he changed into his school robes, Harry shook his head silently. Whatever had happened, Harry wasn't sure he would ever find answers to these questions. After all, what was the point? There was no sense trying to solve a mystery that clearly didn't need any solving. Besides, he remembered Professor Dumbledore's words at the feast—Harry was pretty sure Dumbledore didn't want anyone nosing around in the matter. And so, Harry decided to let the matter be. For now, at least.

Who knew, maybe he would nose around in it someday. Harry was sure this bug wasn't going to leave him alone forever. For now, he had other business to nose around in.

* * *

Ron closed his eyes in silence as he crumpled the letter in his hand. What did he need to do for his mother to care even a bit more? If he was being honest, a part of him had been expecting this response.

Ever since he and Harry had flown in to Hogwarts in his dad's flying Anglia and broken his wand in the painful crash landing, Ron had been forced to do his schoolwork with a spellotaped wand. Although he had managed to temporarily fix it—after the humiliating Slug eating curse had backfired on him in front of Malfoy—with the help of the Twins and Mark, Ron was still unable to perform some of the complex spell work required of him this year.

After receiving the Howler on the first day of term—which again, he had his mum to thank for—Ron had decided not to mention the broken wand in his letters home. There was no need of getting another Howler from his mum for this. But once he had received his latest marks, he had thought about writing home and explaining the whole situation. Perhaps, he thought, seeing his more than satisfactory grades would impress his mother enough to agree to the substantial expense.

Instead, the exact opposite had happened. In the letter he was clutching now, she had said that since his marks were good, his wand was clearly not damaged. There was no need for such an unnecessary expense at this moment, and that she would consider the matter after seeing his end of year marks.

But that wasn't what had irritated Ron the most. No, what had irritated Ron was that this explanation—the response to the letter he had written his mother, was just a small postscript in her reply. The rest of the foot-long parchment was instead dedicated to chiding him for being careless about taking responsibility of his sister Ginny at Hogwarts.

Ginny. For some reason, his mum was exceptionally angry on Ginny, and she had decided to take out this anger on her son. True, Ron hadn't spent much time with his sister this term, but that wasn't something unusual. She was a first-year, and was probably spending time with her new friends than with her older brother. After all, that was what Fred and George had done for him last year. Perhaps they would have spent some more time if Ginny had stayed over at Hogwarts for Christmas, but she hadn't. Mum and Dad had asked her to return to the Burrow, and she had spent the holidays there.

Had something happened then, when Ginny was at home? Why was their mother cross with her? Had she gotten detentions or something? Ron remembered Hermione mention that Ginny was spending every Saturday for the last few weeks before the Christmas holidays in detention. Was that why?

Deciding that he needed to get some answers, Ron got up from his bed and walked down the stone stairs to the common room. Looking around, he saw Ginny sitting in a corner, her head down in a book. He walked up to her and beckoned her to the side when she looked up.

"What did you do?" he asked, once they were standing near the fireplace. "Why is Mum so bloody angry at you?"

"What?" Ron saw that Ginny had paled considerably and was clearly nervous.

"She's mad at you, and now she's mad at me," he growled. "What did you do? What happened back at the Burrow?" Seeing that Ginny was out of words, he continued, "Is this related to the detentions you had every Saturday?" Ginny's eyes widened in surprise before she gave a shaky nod.

So this was what it was about? Why couldn't his mother get over it?

"Why is she taking this out on me then?" he shouted, and saw Ginny flinch back. Realising that he was being too loud, Ron took a deep breath before continuing.

"Why is she harping on me for not looking after you," he hissed. "Aren't you old enough to look after yourself?" Ron glared at her and Ginny bowed her head.

"I'm—I'm sorry," she said, and Ron flared again.

"Didn't you apologise to her? Couldn't she punish you and get this over with?"

"She—she did," Ginny stuttered.

"She did? What was it?"

"No—no Quidditch till—till my third year." Ron sobered up a bit at that.

"That's a bit harsh," he said after a moment, staring into the burning logs in the fireplace. "What did you do for her to give a punishment like that? She's acting as if you're the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets."

"You think I did?"

Ron snapped his head to look at Ginny, who looked as if she was about to cry.

"What?" he asked.

"You think I opened the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Of course not!" Ron retorted angrily. "You could never want to hurt Hermione. And the other muggle-borns," he added hastily. "I was just trying to make a point how absurd it all was!"

Realising that Ginny seemed extremely fragile, he cursed himself for being so insensitive. Ron knew that Ginny had been adversely affected by the news of Mrs Norris's petrification, and it wasn't nice of him to accuse her of it, even ironically. He found his anger dwindling away and he decided to apologise.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," said Ron. "I shouldn't have said that. I was—I was mad at Mum, and I sort of took it out on you. I'm sorry." Seeing that Ginny was still silent, he continued, "And whatever you did, Mum has already punished you for it, right? Not that the punishment matters much to you. You can't even fly yet."

Ron looked up to see Ginny watching him with a hurt expression; the chamber comment must've hurt her more than he realised.

"I didn't mean any of—what I said earlier. I was just—I wasn't accusing you. I was just angry that —" Ron stopped himself from saying anything more. He didn't want to seem needy in front of his baby sister. "I'm sorry I took my anger out on you."

"I understand," Ginny replied finally, rubbing her face on her sleeves. "It's okay."

Ron nodded in relief. Realising that he had nothing more to say to Ginny, he awkwardly shifted on his feet. Thankfully, Ginny took her leave.

"I'll get back to my Charms essay," said Ginny. Ron gave her a weak smile, and saw her heading back to her chair. Seeing that Harry wasn't back from his practice yet, he decided to go back to the dorms and wait there.

As he bounded up the stairs, Ron hoped his mother would leave Ginny alone. She needed to learn to take care of herself.

* * *

15th January 1993

"No bloody way," Mark whispered. As he examined the sight in front of him in the light from his wand, he silently shook his head in disbelief. The odds of him finding this was pretty much next to nothing.

Now that he had finished an initial assessment of the vast amounts of stuff inside the Come and Go Room, Mark had begun separating and sorting everything according to category. The majority of the contents of the room were old, tattered books and broken furniture. This Mark decided to leave for last. The other, more exotic jumble of stuff he decided to tackle first.

Most of it was boring—quills, parchments, old, musty potion kits, mouldy chocolate frogs, damaged brooms, sneakoscopes, foe glasses; stuff that the thousands of students that came to Hogwarts had left behind. Then there was the rare stuff; dresses, jewellery, weapons; all from a time when Hogwarts was more of a castle than a school. Every once in a while, Mark would stumble upon a trinket interesting enough to deserve a second glance, but otherwise, the job of archiving this room was pretty much monotonous.

Still, he showed up here every Friday, eager to sort through the centuries of mess. In a way, it gave him hope—hope that he would be able to find out the cure for his dad, just as he would find some hidden gems amongst the heaps of junk.

The research for the cure was going much slower than Mark had expected. Or maybe he was just being a tad impatient.

Over the Christmas break, Mark had gone over to his old school and met his chemistry teacher, Mr Trentham. In order to make up an excuse, he had asked if he could analyse an old family medicine—something he found in the attic—in the school laboratory. To his surprise, Mr Trentham had readily agreed to run the tests; he had even offered to send up a sample to the chemistry department at the University of London for more advanced tests. Mark had readily accepted the offer, and his dad—under the assumption Mark was doing an extra credit project—had sent it forwards to Hogwarts via the owl post from Diagon Alley.

Mark had spent more than two days trying to understand the pages of detailed reports. Now that he had a much clearer picture of what the Elixir was, he needed to understand _why_ it was the way it was. And for that, Mark had realised, he would need to know how the Elixir was made.

This had stumped Mark a little. He wasn't sure if the Flamels would ever agree to share that information. Even if they did, it would probably be after a long time. In any case, Mark did what they had agreed upon; he wrote his report—explained all his findings, his hypotheses, as well as his interpretation of the chemical analysis of the Elixir. He told them what more he needed to know, and why he needed to know it. And then, with a heavy heart, he tied the magically lightened stack of parchment and paper to a school owl and sent it off to the Flamels.

He had loitered around the library all day yesterday, trying to figure out the next step—trying to figure out what he would do till their reply arrived. So, when he set out for his weekly session of archival work in this very room, Mark had been glad for the distraction. He had found the monotony of the sorting much more bearable today, and that was before he had hit the proverbial gold.

Mark studied the objects in front of him carefully. They were old, obviously, but showed no physicals signs of damage. The large wooden chest storing them had done its job well. The spells and charms on them had probably lost their potency over the years, but those could always be recast. Maybe even improved upon.

A ghost of an idea flittered through Mark's head. Of course, it would take a lot of effort and time; but that was the only con he could think of. The pro, on the other hand, was a lot more substantial. It would be a great learning experience—Mark was sure Professor Flitwick would be more than willing to help him out with this. And from what Ginny had told him, he had a clear two years to work on this, if not more.

Mark couldn't wait to see the expression on Ginny's face when he would finally give this to her.

* * *

21st January 1993

Harry and Ron made their way to the girl's bathroom on the second floor, which was currently serving as their makeshift laboratory. Hermione had asked them to meet her there before Herbology. The reason they were currently running late was that they had stopped for what Ron now called his 'second breakfast.'

Lately, Ron had been spending his time reading _The Lord of the Rings_, a birthday gift he'd received last year from Mark. Hermione had been approving of the decision; that was until Ron discovered the Hobbit eating habits and now insisted on having second breakfast, elevensies, and afternoon tea.

As they turned the corner and entered the corridor to their destination, Harry saw Ron brush off the crumbs on his robes. He shared a conspiratorial grin with Harry as they entered the bathroom.

"How are we looking?" Harry asked. He saw the smile slide off Ron's face as they saw Hermione pacing around the tiled floor, her expression etched with worry.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry. "Did something happen? The potion isn't ruined, is it?"

"No," Hermione answered after a long time, "The potion's going as expected. It'll be ready tomorrow." Although this was good news, Hermione was obviously upset over something.

"Then what's the matter?" Harry asked. It was easy to tell when something was bothering Hermione because she would start pacing around nervously while wringing her hands; just like she was doing now.

"It's—it's just that —" Hermione started hesitantly. Seeing the impatient look on Ron's face, she finally stopped pacing. "I don't think we should use the potion."

"What?!" Ron exclaimed. Harry just stared at her in confusion.

"Why?" Harry asked calmly.

"It's—this is not right," Hermione cried out, "For all intents and purposes, we will be drugging Professor Lockhart!"

"That's because we want to know the truth," Harry retorted, his frustration simmering to the top. "I don't understand, Hermione. It was _your_ idea in the first place. After all the planning and the crazy stuff that we did—you want to back out _now_?"

"We shouldn't be the ones doing this," Hermione replied, looking at her feet guiltily. "Maybe we should tell a teacher or something —"

"And what?!" Ron exploded, "Get expelled for illegally brewing a class D potion? Are you out of your mind?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" Hermione retorted. "We'll be using this potion on someone without any proof! We'll be caught and we'll be expelled!"

Harry saw Hermione's eyes misting over in fear and he realised that this was the cause for her hesitation. Ron was about to say something when Harry silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself down.

"Hermione," said Harry, "We have enough evidence for this. Wasn't it you who said that we needed solid proof that something was fishy with Lockhart?" Harry waited for Hermione to acknowledge this with a small nod. "Well we went and found it, and I showed it to you —"

"So, we should take it to a teacher then," she interrupted. "They'll know what —"

"Hermione." Ron stepped closer. He had picked up on Hermione's mood and sounded surprisingly calm. "Last year, we went to Professor McGonagall with our information that the Stone was going to be stolen, didn't we? And what did she do? Told us off for inciting mischief."

"But we were wrong, weren't we? It wasn't Professor Snape who was going after the Stone, was it?"

"How is that relevant? We didn't tell McGonagall about Snape."

This stumped Hermione for a moment, and Harry saw that she was clearly still upset. He decided to make her see reason.

"Look, Hermione. Lockhart is a teacher. That's why we need to do this behind his back. If he finds out, he'll likely have the evidence disappeared."

"You can't believe that!" Hermione exploded. "Professor Lockhart wouldn't do such a thing,"

"What makes you so sure that he's so innocent?"

"What makes you so sure that he's guilty of something?"

"Because of how he acts!" Harry exclaimed. "He barely teaches us anything, always having us enact stupid scenes from his books —"

"He's teaching us through his own experiences." Hermione crossed her arms in defiance. "So what if he's a bit proud? It's not like he doesn't deserve it, with everything that he's done."

"Listen to yourself, Hermione!" shouted Ron, clearly exasperated. "It's like you've turned into one of his giggling —"

"Wait Ron," Harry interrupted coolly. "Let's say Hermione's right —"

"What?"

"No, wait. Hear me out." He gestured Ron to calm down before he turned to Hermione. "Let's say you're right. Lockhart isn't guilty of anything. Why hasn't he held a single demonstration in class? Even Quirrell—with Voldemort sticking at the back of his head, I may add—held demonstrations for spells. How are we supposed to learn a spell if he doesn't show it to us? Or are our exams going to be essays on Lockhart's exploits with the Wagga Wagga Werewolf?"

Ron got a triumphant expression on his face, while Hermione wilted under the argument

"Maybe he doesn't know about demonstrations?"

"Yeah right," Harry scoffed. "He was a student at Hogwarts once, Hermione. You're saying he doesn't have _any_ idea about class demonstrations?"

"Maybe he's forgotten," said Hermione, before she brightened with an idea. "What if we remind him? He'll have a demonstration in class and then we can judge for ourselves."

Both Harry and Ron stayed silent at this. Harry was completely convinced that Lockhart was guilty, but he was willing to give him another chance, for Hermione's sake. If he was right, it couldn't hurt his case. Sharing a look with Ron, they both nodded.

"Is that acceptable? If the demonstration is good, we'll know we were wrong," Hermione repeated.

"But if it's not …" Ron trailed off, and Hermione gave a grave nod before replying.

"We go ahead with the plan."

A heavy silence followed the statement. Before it could turn awkward, Harry changed the topic.

"The potion," he said, looking at Hermione. "It _is_ going well, isn't it?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, now back to her normal self. "Just one more day left before we distil it."

"How do we figure out if it works?" Ron asked.

"We'll have to test it of course."

Both Hermione and Harry shared a conspiratorial look before turning back to Ron. It took a moment before it dawned on the redhead.

"Oh, come on."

* * *

AN: Another chapter is done, and we get nearer to the trio's confrontation with Lockhart. Of course, Hermione is having second thoughts, and it gives Harry a chance to reevaluate his attitude towards Lockhart. As may be evident, the incident with the Cornish Pixies will take place in the next chapter.

This chapter also gives a glimpse into the relationship between Ron and Ginny. Since Ron won't know of the Diary and the Chamber for some time, it will evolve quite differently than the way it did in canon. Or will it?

As for the rewrite of the old chapters, it is finally complete. All of the first 21 chapters (year 1) have now been rewritten. I do not believe any of the later chapters require any major edits, so they will stand as they are. Of course, any inconsistencies and grammatical errors will be edited if I come across them.

Also, if you check out my profile I have a favour to ask of you. The rock band of Mark and friends will be involved in making music as the story progresses. At one point in Book Two, they'll perform their own songs in front of an audience. However, I don't have any musical talent, let alone in writing original songs.

If someone is willing to write/provide a song or two for this purpose I will be most grateful. Full credit will be given before and after the chapter, plus at the beginning of Book Two. As of now, I just intend to give a feel for their performance without any specific lyrics. But having songs would be more appealing in the chapter. If you can to help me with this or need any details regarding this, feel free to PM me.

Your feedback is appreciated. Please read and review. Thanks!


End file.
